GLENYS REACHED UP to an old brass knocker, a bull’s head, green with neglect, and rapped sharply. Then she turned to Mo. ‘You’re a very observant little girl. I’m sure you really are right, and this is your mother’s old home. But why are we standing here waiting for someone to open the door? Mrs Evans told us that the old couple had moved to the back of the house. Come on.’
The three of them left the door and turned into an overgrown pathway which led to the farmyard itself. There they paused, looking around them. What they could see was shabby but not neglected; Glenys glanced towards the farmhouse and noted that the red-and-white chequered curtains that hung at the windows of what she guessed to be the kitchen were faded but clean. Then a dog, a black and white border collie who had been lying on the cobbles, jumped to its feet and gave a warning growl, wagging its plumy tail.
Jimmy laughed. ‘His tail says “come in”, and his mouth says “stay out”,’ he remarked. ‘Shall I knock on the back door, Auntie Glenys? I’m sure I just saw movement through that window.’ Without waiting for an answer, and ignoring the dog’s low growl, he stepped up to the door and beat a tattoo upon the blistered paintwork with his knuckles.
They barely had to wait thirty seconds before the door swung open to reveal a large black-bearded man with a scar etched across his forehead. He was grinning. Glenys’s heart jumped into her mouth. ‘Sorry, wrong house,’ she gabbled, and turned to run, but Mo was ahead of her, streaking across the cobbles. But Jimmy, to Glenys’s astonishment, gave a shriek and leapt forward.
‘Dad! Oh, Dad!’ he cried, clasping the man around the waist and burying his head in his broad chest. ‘Oh, Dad, where have you been?’ He twisted in the man’s grasp. ‘Mo, you little idiot, don’t you recognise your own father when you see him?’
The man let go of Jimmy and held out a hand. Mo had stopped and was staring back at the house, eyes round with fear. ‘That’s not our daddy,’ she said doubtfully. ‘Our daddy didn’t have a beard; nor he didn’t have a horrid cut on his forehead. Oh, Jimmy, it looks awful like Cyril Huxtable to me; and awful like the man who chased me at the puppy station.’
The man sat down on the step and smiled at Mo. ‘Don’t tell me my bright little button still doesn’t recognise me,’ he said. ‘It was understandable on the railway platform, but now that you’ve had a good look at me . . .’
Mo gave a strangled sob and threw herself into his arms, pushing Jimmy aside. ‘So you recognise me at last,’ her father exclaimed, in a voice somewhere between elation and tears. ‘I’m so sorry I frightened you at the station, but I’ve been hunting for you for what seems like weeks, and then, when I saw you at last, I wasn’t sure it really was you. You’ve grown, queen, and it’s over a year since I saw you last. Now we’d best go indoors, because explaining what’s been happening to us all is going to take some time. And I can introduce you to your grandparents.’
Glenys looked at them. Sam Trewin had risen to his feet with Mo still in his arms, and Jimmy was leaning against his shoulder. They looked so happy, such a complete family group, that envy flooded her, and she spoke more sharply than she intended. ‘How do you come to be here at all, Mr Trewin? For all your children knew you might have been dead.’
Sam Trewin looked her up and down, and it was not a friendly look. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘When I first arrived home I learned that the children had disappeared. Are you a Huxtable? Because the neighbours told me the Huxtables must have had something to do with it.’ His gaze swept her again, his inspection insultingly thorough. ‘I suppose you posed as a friend when you took them away from Solomon Court.’
Jimmy wrenched himself free from his father’s grasp, and Mo turned in his arms and seized a handful of his strong black beard. ‘You shan’t say nasty things about Auntie Glenys,’ they shouted, almost in chorus, Jimmy adding, ‘If she hadn’t taken us away from Liverpool we’d likely have been dead by now, because Cyril Huxtable got it into his head we’d stolen something of his, and he nearly broke Mo’s arm once just because he thought I’d eaten a bit of his pie.’
‘Oh, Jimmy, thank you, but it really doesn’t matter,’ Glenys began, turning to retrace her steps along the path, but she was stopped by Jimmy’s hand grabbing her arm.
‘Don’t go, Auntie Glenys; our dad doesn’t know the truth and we need you to tell it,’ he said urgently. ‘And if he sends you away he can send us away as well, because we know you’re our friend, and have done nothing to hurt us in any way.’ He turned to look defiantly up into his father’s bearded face. ‘And if you think she’s like the Huxtables, what have starved and beaten us and never give us so much as a penny of the money you sent, then Mo and me don’t want to have anything to do with you. So there!’
Sam Trewin heaved a sigh. ‘All right, Miss whatever your name is, you’d best come into the kitchen. My in-laws won’t mind hearing the story again, and we need to hear your version of events. Come along.’
Glenys opened her mouth to say that she would do no such thing, but Mo seized one hand and Jimmy the other. ‘He don’t mean to be nasty, Auntie Glenys,’ Jimmy said urgently. ‘And you’d like to meet our mam’s parents, wouldn’t you? You must want to know the truth as badly as we do, and besides, where would you go? Back to Mrs Buttermilk’s?’
Glenys felt a sob rising up in her throat and choked it back. Jimmy had put his finger on the nub of the matter. She had talked about finding her relatives, but knew it was just a dream. She was alone, as she had always been, and unless she found a job within the next month to six weeks she would be in a parlous state indeed, with no money, no home, and no prospects. Unhappily, she followed the Trewin family into the kitchen. It was a large room, shabby but clean, and lamplit, for it was growing dusk outside. There was a blackleaded range in which a good fire burned, a square wooden table, a number of ladder-back chairs, and a low stone sink with two wooden draining boards. Glenys thought it felt homely and pleasant.
As they entered the kitchen, two elderly people seated on either side of the fire got shakily to their feet. They both smiled at the children, then turned to Sam. ‘So you were right, Sam; you thought they’d come here,’ the woman said. She turned back to Jimmy and Mo. ‘I’m your granny – your nain, as we say in Wales – and I welcome you to Weathercock Farm. This is my husband, your taid, and we’d be happy for you to live with us for as long as you should wish. Indeed, since you will inherit the farm one day, the sooner you move in here and get to know our ways the better. We’ve plenty of bedrooms.’ She smiled sadly and put out a caressing hand to ruffle Mo’s hair. ‘I can’t believe you are actually here, because until a few days ago we didn’t even know we had grandchildren. We knew Grace had died because your father sent us a telegram, but he didn’t mention you and he forgot to include your address, although we couldn’t have come to the funeral anyway, because Taid was in hospital with pneumonia, and far too ill to be moved.’ Nain wiped a tear from her eye as she remembered that terrible time.
‘I think it might be quite nice to live here,’ Mo said cautiously, ‘but what about our dad? And what about Auntie Glenys? We wants her to live with us, doesn’t we, Jimmy?’
Glenys was about to reply that she did not wish to be a burden when old Mr Griffiths spoke, his voice heavily accented and his breathing wheezy. ‘Jumping ahead of yourselves you are,’ he commented. He turned to Glenys. ‘No disrespect, miss, but we’ve yet to hear how you come to be travelling with our grandchildren. Sam here told us Jimmy and Maureen had left Liverpool with a woman he’d never heard of. So before we make any more plans for the future I think we must hear your story. Sit yourselves down – you too, Sam – and we’ll start as we mean to go on, please. Whoever is speaking must be allowed to do so without interruptions. Questions can come at the end.’
His wife laughed but patted the couch, indicating that the children should sit beside her. ‘I think we should start with the children, and Miss Glenys can pick up the story at the time she entered it in real life,’ she said. ‘Off you go, Jimmy and Mo!’
‘That’s a poem,’ Mo said approvingly. Glenys had sat down beside her and smiled at the remark.
‘Very true. So far as I can make out, the story really begins with Mo herself. As it was told to me she was cleaning sprouts so that Mrs Huxtable might sell them to folk for their Christmas dinner . . .’
She looked enquiringly at Mo, who nodded vigorously. ‘And I saw Cyril Huxtable opening a parcel . . .’
Glenys sighed. ‘Start at the very beginning,’ she said. ‘One morning a few days before Christmas, when you were doing the sprouts . . .’
The story unfolded far more coherently than one would have expected. Everyone was amused by the tying together of Cyril’s bootlaces, but annoyed that the Huxtables could think Mo would steal anything from anyone, ‘let alone a piece of what I dare say was probably costume jewellery’, Sam had surmised. And having heard how the other man had abused his trust and ill treated his children, Sam said he would have cheered had Cyril broken his neck. Glenys’s side of the story followed, and she made no secret of the fact that she thought Sam a cruel and uncaring father to leave his children in the care of people whose bad reputation should have been known to him. Having heard Glenys’s explanation, one would have thought that Sam would have looked upon her with a kindlier eye, but this did not seem to be the case. He resented her criticism of the time he had allowed to elapse before coming back to Liverpool, and she resented it when he said, frankly, that had she not run away with them he would have been reunited with his children weeks earlier. She pointed out sharply that she was not psychic, could not possibly have known that he would return. ‘I thought you a most unnatural parent,’ she told him coldly. ‘And who could blame me? You did not seem to care what happened to Jimmy and Mo, whereas I, being on the spot, could understand their desperation to get away from Liverpool and the Huxtables.’ Sam began to justify himself, but his father-in-law shook his head chidingly.
‘Miss Glenys has told us the story as it appeared to her,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget what we said.’
His son-in-law had reared up, his face reddening, but at his father-in-law’s words he sat back in his chair and grinned resignedly. ‘And here was me thinking I’d got my temper under control at last,’ he said ruefully. ‘It’s got me into enough trouble in the past, one way or another. If it hadn’t been for my temper Grace and I could have got married from here, helped you run the farm and lived happily ever after, but I couldn’t bear to be told when I did things wrong. I was a young hothead in those days, and I admit now that I behaved very badly.’ He smiled sadly at his children, sitting demurely on the couch beside his mother-in-law. ‘I won’t bore you by telling you about the big row which resulted in my persuading Grace that I could never be a farmer, and that I would only marry her if she would come back to Liverpool with me and agree to my going back to sea. That’s an old, old story, and one I’m deeply ashamed of.’
He was silent for a few minutes, a frown creasing his brow. Then he looked up and let his gaze roam around the assembled company. ‘I’m going to tell things, not as I learned them myself, but as I think they really happened,’ he said.
Jimmy began to say something, but subsided as Mo kicked him sharply in the shins. ‘Shurrup,’ she hissed. ‘You heard what Tai . . . Taid said – let our Dad tell wi’out interruptions.’
‘Thanks, Mo,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll start at the very beginning, which was the day after we docked and I was walking along the quay, on my way back from the post office where I’d just sent off your Christmas parcel. I wasn’t taking much notice of my surroundings, and then someone – or something – hit me hard on the back of the head. I fell forward, and found myself face down in the oily water of the dock and only half conscious. Of course I tried to swim to the surface, but just as I reached it something struck me a stunning blow on the forehead – you can see the scar – and I lost consciousness completely.’
‘Oh, poor Dad,’ Mo whispered. ‘You might have been killed!’
‘I very nearly was,’ Sam said ruefully. ‘But a passer-by must have fished me out, and I’m afraid I can’t tell you much of what happened after that, because someone had stripped me of my clothing and everything I possessed so that when they took me to the hospital no one had any idea that I was a seaman off one of the ships. The Mary Anne had been due to sail on the evening tide, and no doubt she did so, with Captain Able believing I had jumped ship as seamen sometimes do. I was unconscious for ten days, but at the end of that time I came round to find myself in a hospital bed, with absolutely no idea how I got there, or even who I was. Fortunately for me, because I didn’t speak the language, one of the doctors was an American and he and I got quite friendly. He told me about his family back in the States, but of course I couldn’t reciprocate because I could remember nothing of my life before I opened my eyes to find myself in hospital. The doctor, however, was sure that I would recover my memory, and one day, when I was taking a walk around the town, I saw a boy of about your age, Jimmy, pushing a little girl on a swing. The sight of those two children disturbed me, though I could not have said why. They were in a playground with two or three swings, a slide and a sort of roundabout, and whilst I was watching them the little girl jumped off the swing and came hurtling through the air, and I caught her, and the moment I held her in my arms my memory came flooding back. I remembered everything: my darling Grace dying, taking a berth aboard the Mary Anne, and leaving you children in the care of the Huxtables. I stood the little girl down very carefully and she ran back to the swing, and after that I just sat down on the dusty earth and tried to make sense of what had happened. My American doctor friend had told me not to try too hard but simply to open my mind to thoughts of the past, and over the next few days that was what I did. The memories came at their own pace and would not be hurried, but when I remembered that Grace had died I knew I must come back home as soon as possible. My arrangement with the Huxtables had included my sending money home to cover the rent and other expenses, and of course I had not done so for some time.’
Jimmy beamed at his father. ‘So you never knew Mrs Huxtable ill-treated us,’ he said.
Sam shook his head. ‘And I promise you, Jimmy, that had I known, nothing would have prevented me from sorting her out.’
‘I knew it!’ Jimmy said exultantly. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let us down. Well, we both knew, didn’t we, Mo?’
Mo stared at her brother, a pink flush gradually creeping across her face. ‘We didn’t know!’ she said indignantly. ‘We thought he’d forgot all about us.’
Sam groaned. ‘I’ve been a rotten dad to you, both of you,’ he said remorsefully. ‘But I’ll make it up to you somehow. Now let me finish my story.’ He smiled across at his in-laws. ‘I know you’ve heard all this before, but I dare say you won’t mind listening to it again,’ he said. ‘Or if you need to be doing other things you could leave me to tell it for the second time.’ The Griffiths, however, exchanged an affectionate glance and shook their heads.
‘It’s a complicated tale,’ Taid said. ‘Confusing, like. No harm in hearing a repetition, hey, Mother?’
His wife nodded. ‘Fire ahead, Sam,’ she said.
Sam Trewin took a deep breath, thought for a moment, and then began. ‘Once I had regained my memory and knew that my darling Grace was dead and my children were coping alone, I got a berth on the next ship heading for Liverpool.’ He smiled at Jimmy and Mo. ‘When we docked I signed off, for I meant to get work ashore and look after you myself. I went straight to Solomon Court, and you can imagine my horror when I went to number four and the door was opened by a slovenly woman with greasy hair whom I scarcely recognised; she seemed much fatter and more unkempt than I remembered. Perhaps I should have taken warning, but all I cared about was that this woman had looked after you – fed and clothed you – for over a year, when I had abandoned you. So, foolish though it seems now, I was truly grateful, and believed everything she told me. I asked where you were, and it was then that she told me you’d been kidnapped. I did not stop to ask myself why anyone should want to steal a couple of penniless kids, but headed straight for the police station, and if I hadn’t walked slap bang into Nutty I’d have reported you missing there and then.
‘But Nutty enlightened me. He said that Mrs Huxtable was a wicked old woman and her son was worse. He told me Cyril had near on broken Mo’s arm once, and had been ranting and raving at Christmas about getting his hands on you both, but then his ship had sailed without him and now no one knew where he was. I didn’t know what to think, still less what to do, except to carry out my original intention and report you missing, only I said it was definitely Cyril Huxtable who had taken you. But then I had a stroke of luck. I met an old pal who had a second-hand clothes stall and he told me that Cyril thought Mo had stolen something of his and that he was after your blood. Good old Harry knows a liar from an honest man and he didn’t believe a word of it. He took you kids to the Salvation Hall and handed you over to a Major Williams, and within a couple of days you had disappeared.’ He glared at Glenys. ‘Don’t you understand? If you’d not paid for the kids’ tickets and taken them off into Wales I would have sorted the whole thing out, but before I could do anything you, Miss Schoolteacher, had whisked them away.’
Jimmy could stay silent no longer. ‘But when we told our story I explained that Cyril caught me cutting holly, and Auntie Glenys saved us both by letting us stay in her house,’ he said indignantly. ‘Me and Mo told you that Cyril knew we’d taken shelter somewhere on Orange Street, and after Frank had spoken to him, and found he was determined to stick around until he found us, we knew we had to get away, not just from Orange Street but from Liverpool itself.’
Sam nodded, though reluctantly. ‘But it was not sensible just to take off with only a vague idea of where you were going. You were lucky that it was me who caught up with you and not Cyril Huxtable, because I imagine he’s disappeared because he too is looking for you.’ He turned to Glenys. ‘I dare say you did it for the best, but it was more of a hindrance than a help. Sheer interference I’d call it.’
Glenys sniffed. ‘If we’re going to get personal I can’t help thinking you a very neglectful parent,’ she snapped. ‘Oh, I know you were nearly drowned and lost your memory, but what about that first year? There was nothing wrong with you then. You could have come home any time and made sure that your children were in good hands. So if we’re casting blame, Mr Trewin, I think you should take your share.’
Sam felt his cheeks grow hot. The fact that there was some truth in what she said did not make it easier to accept, so he went into the attack. ‘Good God, woman, why did you take no notice when you finally rang Frank and he told you the children’s father had turned up? I know he did, because Major Williams introduced us before I left Liverpool and we’ve spoken regularly ever since. And if you’d taken the trouble to ring him a bit more often yourself I could have met you days ago and brought my children to safety much earlier. In case you’ve forgotten, we still don’t know where Cyril is.’
Glenys stared. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said. ‘Frank said nothing about their father!’
‘He told me he did,’ Sam said doggedly. He felt strongly that it should have been he who had brought his children to Weathercock Farm, not a jumped up schoolteacher who thought she knew it all.
But Jimmy was grinning. ‘I know what happened, and when you remember what a bad line it was, it’s easy to understand,’ he said. He turned to Glenys. ‘You thought Frank said we should go farther, right down to the coast, but I bet that wasn’t what he said at all. He must have said he’d seen our father.’
Sam made a rude disbelieving noise, but his mother-in-law tutted and gave him a reproving look. ‘Of course, that’s the obvious answer,’ she said. ‘I think you should apologise to this young lady, Sam, because if it hadn’t been for her that Huxtable person might well have got hold of your children, though what he intended to do if he caught them heaven only knows. Now come along, do the decent thing. There’s no shame in admitting you’re wrong and apologising for it.’
Sam began to say that the whole episode would have been cleared up weeks ago had the young teacher not interfered, but at this point Mr Griffiths leaned forward. ‘I’ve not said much, young Sam, because I know you’ve been under a fair amount of strain,’ he said. ‘But remember, it was your temper and your refusal to apologise which led to us losing our only child.’
Sam took a deep breath and released it in a low whistle, and the hot colour which had invaded his face gradually faded. He turned to Glenys. ‘I’m sorry, I jumped the gun,’ he said gruffly. ‘You did your best by my children; did what I should have done, had I been in my right mind. The reason I didn’t return sooner isn’t easy to explain, particularly to anyone who didn’t know Grace.’ He turned to Mo. ‘Sweetheart, you’re the living image of your mother, so much so that when she died I found it hard to look at you. I’m sorry, my darling; I never meant to tell you that, but it was the true reason why I sent every penny of my wages home, and never came myself.’
Mo raised a hand to her wet eyes and rubbed them dry, then gave an enormous sniff, and clambered on to her father’s knee. ‘Nutty’s mam said that I were too like Mam for comfort,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘Does that mean you’ll go away again, our dad? Because it ain’t my fault, the way I look.’
Mrs Griffiths stood up. ‘Of course your daddy won’t go away again,’ she said briskly, and Sam saw that her eyes were shiny with unshed tears. ‘Why, there’s enough work on Weathercock Farm to keep all of us occupied, and if this war they’re talking about really happens, then the country will need every mouthful of food we can grow, because they won’t be bringing in supplies from abroad.’
‘When the war comes, which it most certainly will, those of us in the merchant fleet will be called up by the Royal Navy,’ Sam observed. ‘And that means, my poor little button, that I shall have to go to sea again. But I shall make sure Liverpool is my home port, and in my absence you will be well looked after by Nain and Taid.’ He looked encouragingly from Mo’s smiling face to Jimmy’s serious one. ‘What do you think of that, you two?’
‘Can Auntie Glenys stay with us?’ Mo asked at once. ‘She’s my bestest friend, so she is.’
Sam laughed, but once more he felt resentment rising up in his chest. If that woman hadn’t interfered it would be he who was his daughter’s ‘bestest friend’. But he could scarcely say so, and certainly not in front of his in-laws. Instead he glanced towards the schoolteacher and saw her shaking her head.
‘Darling Mo, I’d love to stay here with you and help on the farm; it would be fun as well as my duty. But I’m afraid I’m just the right age to be called up and posted to somewhere like the Outer Hebrides!’
Sam breathed an inward sigh of relief. He knew he was being mean and selfish, but he found himself hoping that Glenys would indeed join up and be posted far away. However, he realised it would not do to let such feelings show. ‘Why not join the Wrens, then we could both go to sea,’ he said jokingly.
And he was disproportionately upset when Mo said at once: ‘Oh, that would never do, Daddy. If she can’t stay here with us we wants her where we can visit her, doesn’t we, Jimmy?’
Sam looked at his son, who had been quieter than usual, and read in his eyes more than he wanted to see. Mo was only a baby and accepted things at their face value, but Jimmy was older and looked deeper than his sister. He had read Sam’s mind, and Sam realised that Jimmy would soon begin to see that the older man was jealous of his children’s affection for the schoolteacher. Hastily, he tried to put things right. ‘Well, Miss Trent, you’re very welcome to stay with my parents-in-law, I’m sure,’ he said quickly. ‘But you told us yourself that when you left Liverpool with my children you were not being entirely altruistic. You were looking for your own family, and I imagine you will want to continue to pursue your search. Naturally, any help we can give . . .’
He was watching Miss Trent’s face as he spoke, and saw the colour in her cheeks gradually fade until her face was perfectly white and her big blue eyes, when she turned them on him, seemed to burn. ‘It’s quite all right, Mr Trewin,’ she said quietly. ‘I won’t intrude on your family now you have all managed to find one another. I shall continue my own search and need no help from anyone, and now I’d better go back to Mrs Buttermilk’s house and explain that the children are staying here. I shan’t set out on the next stage of my journey until tomorrow, but I think it best that we say our goodbyes now.’ She had been sitting in a comfortable armchair, but got up and went over to give Mo and Jimmy a kiss. ‘Cheerio, kids,’ she said, and Sam realised that she had recognised his antagonism and was doing her best not to let the children see her hurt.
Feeling ashamed, he suggested that she might stay for the evening meal before returning to the town. ‘I’ll see you safely home afterwards,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll bring the kids into town tomorrow to see you on your way.’
Mr Griffiths began to speak, to say that Glenys must not refuse their hospitality, but his wife hushed him. ‘I’m going to prepare a meal for us all and Miss Glenys will no doubt be happy to give me a hand,’ she said firmly. ‘It will be bacon from the pig we killed last autumn, and our own good eggs. Children, Sam and your taid will show you round the farm whilst Miss Glenys and I prepare the meal.’ She smiled kindly at Jimmy and Mo. ‘Give us thirty minutes and the food will be on the table.’