IT WAS BARELY light, with a heavy ground frost and a harsh wind beginning to build, when Phyllie attached the wooden cart to Maeve, Miss F’s bicycle. She set off to collect compost that the villagers in Little Mitherton and Great Mitherton left at the designated collection points. Phyllie grinned to herself, pulling her woolly hat well down, before ringing her bell at chickens in the road. Honestly, if these WI women were set the task of planning the whole war at one committee meeting, it would be over before you knew where you were. She looked up at the grey sky.
‘Hello, darling Sammy,’ she whispered. ‘I love you so much. I can’t wait until I see you in January.’ For that is what he had promised in his letter.
She picked up the pails, labelled with their owners’ names, and rode back towards the allotment. While she did this, Miss F and Jake would be walking Francois to the pond, checking on the ducks, and throwing bread. Ice had formed at the edges yesterday, black and sinister somehow. When it froze over completely the ducks just ‘shoved off’ to the hide in the fenced-off area, Miss F had told her.
Phyllie bumped over the ruts leading to the allotment. Ice filled the hollows and cracked as she skidded over them. To the left she could hear hedging and ditching. Clearly there was no point in going to see Joe about the new scheme she and Miss F had devised until darkness fell.
She swore as she fiddled with the padlock on the wooden allotment gate because the metal was so cold, but no one was prepared to make it easy for the vegetable thieves. She pushed the bike with its cargo along the frosted grass track leading to the compost heaps. She was racing against the clock, and lifted the old carpet off the first of them, feeling the warmth, seeing the steam. She lowered the back of the cart, slinging the contents onto the heap, before replacing the pails and the carpet. She checked the lists that had been wrapped round the handles of the pails, then set to, digging up parsnips, leeks, the odd cabbage from the various plots. She felt that hacking concrete would have been easier. Back she rode, delivering the contents to the drop-off points.
The cold had bitten deep, but she wore extra socks and the gumboots, which were a size too big, had been warm enough. While she was doing this, Mrs Speedie would have collected up the scraps from the pails marked ‘Pig Club’. It used to be done by young Alice Martin but she had joined the WAAF. The WI had thrown a farewell party and Phyllie, single and young, had felt momentarily isolated as they’d all raised their glasses to her. As the villagers flung themselves into the Gay Gordons, however, and she had whirled with the oldest of them, she felt truly proud to be amongst them.
She still felt that, day after day, as these women looked after children, foster children, visiting parents, while all the time making preserves, chutneys, and baking something out of nothing. You would never know they tucked away telegrams bearing bad news of their sons and husbands, and smiled. They were completely wonderful.
Once the pails and their contents were returned, she replaced her load with that of the metal salvage the WI had helped the Scouts to collect on Saturday afternoon. She cycled it to Mrs Symes’s back gate and now they both trundled to the town collection area in her old Morris, its boot filled.
On their return it was time for morning service and while the vicar said prayers for those who had embarked on the first major British land offensive against the Italians in the Western Desert, she and Jake walked. They headed for the pond and she thought of the bombs falling on so many provincial cities, including Bristol. She remembered that day and night in London, and was amazed that anyone had survived, and was surviving the bombing of Britain’s cities. She phoned the new presbytery from time to time, and Frankie always said that her mother would be pleased to hear her news on her return, but was off out – busy, busy.
While she mulled, Jake made notes for the nature journal he was preparing for his mother and father, and for the school. Miss F and the vicar had suggested he kept a diary of God’s work during wartime, together with the occasional drawing. They didn’t say ‘just in case’, but why not? It might be something to cherish if the Germans came: Britain how it once was.
He was drawing the old man’s beard, growing in and over the as yet uncut hedges, as they reached the pond. He had shown a talent for art as the months had passed, which was hardly surprising, because his mother had designed wallpaper in Berlin, he had told Phyllie. Francois leapt over the ice and in after a duck. ‘Out of there,’ she and Jake shouted together, fearful that Andy Bartlett would come to hear of it.
Jake said, ‘We should whisper it, you know. It’s a dead giveaway, yelling like that. Mr Andy’s all right sometimes, but you still never know, do you? He’s very up and down.’
Francois was out by then, shaking himself all over them. He was shouted at again. They laughed together. Jake pointed to the horse chestnut on the edge of the woods. ‘Race you to the tree, Phyllie.’ He took off and she followed, and it was easy to let him win, because her oversized gumboots slopped and flopped and it was like wading through treacle. She snatched off her hat and threw it at him when she arrived. He laughed. He laughed a lot now.
They collected ivy and the old man’s beard that was growing within the wood and once they reached the centre, half a mile from the pond, they risked life and limb to yank down some mistletoe. They would store it, then use it for Christmas decorations. They noted exactly where the best holly trees were.
‘The birds might take the berries before then,’ Phyllie said, ‘but at least they’ll have full stomachs, and the branches will look good anyway. We could make paper-chains by cutting paper strips, then colouring them. We can then make paste out of flour to stick them together. Perhaps write that down too.’ He did.
In late afternoon, all three of them were in the kitchen listening to the wireless while Miss F did the WI sugar accounts, Jake made paper-chains, and Phyllie cooked. She was preparing a pie for supper from a couple of rashers of streaky bacon, parsnips and carrots, with sage and thyme they had dried in late summer, when the telephone rang. Phyllie looked helplessly at her pastry-covered hands. Francois barked, while Jake grimaced and waved his paste-covered fingers, to which a strip of paper had stuck.
‘Paper-chain making,’ he said.
Miss F looked up. ‘Well, all right, I think I’ve got the message. I’ll go, shall I?’ She called from the hall, ‘Phyllie, it’s your brother for you.’
Jake swung round, his fingers seemed to be stuck together. ‘You’re not going to London? They still bomb it. Say you’re not going?’
Phyllie washed her hands, wiping them on her apron as she hurried into the hall, calling, ‘Just wait. We know nothing.’
The hall was freezing. Miss F was holding the receiver as though it might explode at any moment, which Phyllie suspected was pretty much her expectation of this new-fangled thing.
‘He seems agitated.’ Miss F’s whisper would reach the end of the village. She thrust the receiver at Phyllie and hurried into the warmth of the kitchen.
Phyllie said, ‘Hello, Frankie. Is everything all right? Mother?’
Her brother’s voice was strained as he said, ‘Miss Featherstone is correct, I am rather agitated, and I wonder if it wouldn’t be a good idea for Mother to visit the countryside for a few days. Perhaps over Christmas, if that is possible?’
‘Here?’ Phyllie said, and now it was she who felt strained.
He muttered, ‘Well, you’re in the countryside, Phyllie. Must you be so obtuse?’
Phyllie spoke before she thought. ‘I’m not aware I’m being obtuse, Frankie, but here is the last place Mother would want to be, and you know that very well. In spite of bombs raining down, she sees her place as beside you, especially at Christmastime, like a good Catholic, I would think. Certainly not here, with a heathen like Jake, and, indeed, me.’ She was surprised at her bitterness, and felt ashamed.
There was a pause. ‘Phyllie, dear Phyllie. It’s as much of a burden to be the favourite, you know. She’s exhausted, and needs some noiseless nights, and the company of her daughter, though I know she finds it difficult to say this. What’s more, I am not a saint, and I could do with a bloody break.’
Phyllie stared into the mirror, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in the glow of the electric light. They were only electrified downstairs. Upstairs she had grown to like the smell of the oil lamps. She knew she was being manipulated but it was her own mother they were discussing. ‘Heavens, Frankie, you do sound stressed.’ She half laughed. ‘Is it Mother or the bombing?’
‘A bit of both, my dear. She can be remarkably difficult, but I don’t need to tell you that.’
Phyllie laughed; at least her brother was feeling the heat for a change. ‘Of course, put her on the train and I will meet her. She may come on the twenty-fourth, Christmas Eve, and if she is unkind just once to Jake, I will put her on the first train back. She may stay for a week. Don’t hang up. I need to confirm first with Jake, and Miss F, not forgetting Francois.’
Frankie said, ‘Francois? You have some French evacuees too?’
‘We have a dog evacuated from Dunkirk.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, how can a dog object?’
She laughed again. ‘You’d be surprised. Wait a moment. I’ll be back.’
The warmth and light of the kitchen was welcome. She explained. Jake and Miss F exchanged a look. Francois appeared concerned at the sudden tension in the room. Miss F smiled suddenly. ‘Of course. Perhaps she could have your bedroom, Phyllie, if you can manage with the sofa? It could be a blessing; she might come to accept the things she should.’
Jake stood up. ‘She can have my boxroom. I can go on the sofa with Francois. He’ll settle by the fire.’
‘You’re very kind, both of you. We can sort out the details.’ Phyllie headed back into the hall.
Miss F followed her and now her voice really was a whisper. ‘We don’t want any of her nonsense about Jake killing Christ. I won’t have it, not in this village now everyone loves the boy and understands his culture and is mortified at their previous reservations. Well, I say everyone, but it seems to me Ron is building the bullying again, which I’m sure is because his mother might not be coming for Christmas. Why that ghastly woman can’t commit as the other mums have done, I do not know. It’s making the lad so … Well, so angry.’
Phyllie nodded, but she needed to finish the telephone call. She picked up the receiver, the line was crackling, and there was the sound of bangs. ‘A raid?’ she asked.
Frankie laughed. ‘The Nativity in the hall being put together.’
She said, ‘Mum will be welcome, as long as we have no nonsense about Jews and Christ, is this quite clear?’
She could almost see her brother nodding, with a finger in his ear, as the banging heightened. ‘I’ll have a word, and I will telephone you once we’ve sorted times. She can get the first train in the morning, or perhaps a little later?’
Phyllie murmured. ‘It would be excellent if she could be in time for the carol service, after which is the children’s party. In addition there’s to be an adults’ knees-up. God bless the WI for contributing the costs, and organising both beanos.’
‘Sounds like fun. The WI seem a formidable bunch.’ He sounded relieved, but exhausted.
She thought that indeed they were, and if any bunch of people could contain her mother, it would be them.
Once the pie was ready and supper eaten, Phyllie set out once again, with a note for Joe from Miss F, and her own begging words carefully rehearsed in front of both the others. As she cycled, Jake’s warning that Joe might say she needed to talk to Andy about it rang in her ears.
The moon was bright, so there was no need for the minuscule amount of light the bicycle lamp was allowed. She pedalled off, through the blacked-out village. She wore the gumboots again, and felt sure she’d be left with permanent welts on her calves from the slapping. Owls hooted, and the breeze stirred the bare branches as she took the left-hand turn to the farm. Yet again she wondered why she had opened her mouth, and even Sammy had said when he telephoned from Harwich, ‘Well, the one that suggests it has to carry it through, daft glorious girl.’
Tonight, if he rang, she would tell him that the jeweller had promised that her ring would be ready for collection by Christmas and now the smile faded. Would she have the courage to wear it in front of her mother? The farmyard was in darkness too, but from the milking shed came the clanking of pails, and the mooing of the cows, as she leaned the bicycle against the stone wall of the yard. It would be Joe and Old Stan because Andy left that to the two-handed brigade, or so he had snapped at her when she was last here.
He had added, ‘I’m left with the accounts, the cooking, and things like ditching or driving the horses. I’m safe to do that. What a bloody life.’
The geese came flapping, but knew her so it was only a token gesture. ‘Just which of you will be here after Christmas?’ she murmured. The dogs waited patiently for a stroke. There was a duck quacking somewhere. She banged loudly on the milking-parlour door. Joe opened it at crack, slipping through, and shutting it quickly so that darkness resumed. He dragged his cigarette from his ear, and lit it.
She explained to Joe that in summer there was plenty of room outside for children to play, and they’d been managing with the school hall and the village hall in the cold of winter. ‘But now, the Home Guard need the village hall more and more, and the Scouts and Guides need the school hall and it’s not big enough anyway, for all our children, especially with the new evacuees from the cities. I am thinking of your old barn for a sort of indoor play area. I know the roof is damaged at the far end, but I wondered whether we could all come and tidy it up, draping a tarpaulin …’
She faded to a halt as Joe put up a hand, dragged on his cigarette, looking not at her, but over to the house. ‘Not sure our boy would like that, but it might be an idea to ask. I’m sick of trying with t’lad. He used to be a goer, but the going’s gone out of him. It might stir something.’
She thrust the letter from Miss F at him. ‘Miss F has thoughts about the wood burner. Perhaps it could be brought out of the stable store, where it’s doing nothing. We could incorporate it into the barn, safely, because Mrs Speedie knows someone who can rig a flue. The straw could be cleared, with just a few bales for seats, and one of us will be on duty all the time.’
Joe read the note from the light of another match. He tucked it in his pocket, smiling slightly. It was the smile he kept for Miss F. She had her own in reply. Not for the first time Phyllie wondered why they didn’t just get on with it?
The match spluttered and died as he tossed it onto the muck of the yard. He noticed her boots. ‘Big enough, are they? Setting yourself up as the woman who lived in a shoe, and had so many children …’ He was laughing.
‘Never mind my boots, Joe, let’s just concern ourselves with the children.’ She was smiling. ‘What do you think? These children are far from home – the evacuees, anyway – and all of them seem to have a member of the family away on active service, which means they worry. They’re vulnerable.’
He waved her down, and drew on his cigarette. ‘I read the note, got me orders, but it’s not me you need to convince, lass. We need to get him pushing himself. It’s no good hiding away when you think you’ve done something wrong. You have to face it.’
She stared at him. ‘How can it be wrong to be wounded? That’s absurd.’
‘That’s not quite the ruddy story, lass. Time you knew, like the rest of the village. On occasion Miss F can hold her tongue, you know. She’ll have left it to me to decide a good and proper moment to fill you in. You see, he was driving a lorry, a damned dog ran across t’road, he swerved to miss the bugger, went arse over tit the bloody lorry did and into a ditch. Two of his mates died, ’e togged along for help, though he was injured right badly. He thinks he ran away, on top of killing ’em. Don’t like dogs now, he don’t. Don’t like much, he don’t. He never even got to the war, you see.’
He dropped his cigarette. It spluttered and died. He dug into his pocket and offered her one from his pack. She shook her head but at this moment she wished she smoked. How sad war was.
As he lit up again, Joe said, ‘We need to get him out and about. He used to be a nice lad. He’s not now. He be a bugger.’
‘He’s feeling guilty.’ She knew how he felt. Well, not to that extent. ‘Poor man.’
‘Aye, stands to reason, we all know that, but it’s not going to get any better sitting nursing it like a bleeding ’obgoblin, and ’e’s paid his price. He’s lost his bloody hand, and has a buggered leg. They’re healing but ’is head’s a bit behind his body, if you get my drift. Seen it with me beasts. The head takes longer to mend, it does.’
Old Stan called through the door: ‘These danged udders ain’t going to milk themselves, boss. But we’re nearly done. Just need an ’and on the home straight.’
Joe shrugged, patting the pocket that held Miss F’s letter, looking around the yard, then stroking the dogs’ heads. ‘Look, it’s all right by me. We’ll just shut our lugs to complaints from the lad, and I’ll give you an ’and with the tarpaulin. You and me, Phyllie, with our Miss F at the bottom of t’ladders, darting from one to t’other and giving us the benefit of her advice.’
She grinned. ‘Not a happy thought.’ She was eyeing the farmhouse as he made to open the milking-parlour door. ‘He’s in your kitchen, is he? Maybe best that I go and ask. Bit rude otherwise.’
Joe grunted. ‘If you’re looking for an early death, lass.’
She felt her way across the yard, as a cloud went over the moon. It cleared. She was at the porch. The dogs licked her hands, and returned to their kennels. She knocked. There was no reply. She entered, and shut the door behind her quickly to keep the blackout. Andy sat at the table, reading the paper, one edge of which was propped up between two empty beer bottles. There was an oil lamp set in the centre of the pine table. He looked up. ‘What the hell …?’
She yanked off her boots and tiptoed across the cold flagstones. She left damp patches. Her feet probably smelled, but you wouldn’t notice in this mess of unwashed dishes piled high in the sink. Rubbish overflowed the bin. The range was exuding heat, so that was one good thing. The old sofa, to the right of the range, was covered with dirty – or were they clean? – clothes. Certainly unironed, anyway. Oil lamps lit the rest of the room. She pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat opposite him, uninvited.
He returned to the Daily Mail. She said, ‘If it’s all right with you, Miss F and I would like to use the old barn as a play area for the children after school. It just needs a tarpaulin slung over the bad end. Your dad said we could drag out the old wood burner, and we’re sure we can find someone to sort out a flue. Thought I’d just check with you that you are agreeable to having us all after school and at weekends.’
He put the paper down, shaking his head. ‘No, it’s not going to happen. We can’t have kids messing around here. They’ll get into everything, hurt themselves, and you had no bloody right to set this up with Dad without talking to me first.’
‘I haven’t really set it up, just sorted things out a bit. Here I am, running it past you. I’ll be here to stop them getting into mischief, or one of the others will be, all the time.’
He stared at her, his grey eyes as cold as the sea. Oh, Sammy, if only it was you. You’d get that tarpaulin up in no time. She shook her head, and concentrated.
He said, ‘Why would you think that having you or one of the others here makes it any better? We have enough WI women fluttering about being busy. I repeat, you didn’t bloody ask me before you launched into action.’
She shook her head. ‘You know very well the women have stopped preserving and pickling for the winter now. Which means they have more time to keep a check on the children.’ She went into the speech she had practised for him. ‘We need help, you see, Andy. These children are vulnerable, scared and living away from their families. They need somewhere to play, somewhere to spend time, safely. The Home Guard, Scouts and Guides are so busy for the war effort, we thought you might consider that it could be part of the farm’s war effort.’
He said, ‘We have morons from the ministry telling us how, where and what to farm, and what’s more, we work our fingers—’ His laugh was harsh. ‘Well, some of my fingers to the bone, and that’s enough of a war effort. Bloody cheek of you to suggest we have children on top of that. You’ve talked to Dad, and now you’ve talked to me. I’ve answered no.’ He was looking down at the newspaper.
She stood up. ‘Well, that’s not good enough. I repeat, there’s a war on, they’re far from home. We need somewhere safe for them to play, so I’ll take that as a yes.’
He stood up too, thrusting back the chair. It teetered and fell.
She insisted, ‘I’ll be back early tomorrow to work on the roof. I’m sure you have a tarpaulin, and I’m sure I can manage with Joe’s help to put it up. Miss F will take the bottom of the ladders. See you then.’ She tiptoed to the door, and shoved her feet into her boots. The socks had gathered into uncomfortable folds but she wasn’t going to undermine her exit by faffing about. She left, almost bumping into Joe in the porch. He was grinning, and gripped her shoulder so hard it hurt. ‘Thank you, lass. Feisty little thing, ain’t you? Let’s see what ’appens.’
She rode away, her feet hurting as the socks bunched even more. Owls hooted as she wondered how anyone could not get feisty, when there was a war on. For goodness’ sake, the child she lived with was making a notebook about the nation’s culture in case it was destroyed. Feisty? Why not?
Miss F and Phyllie arrived at seven in the morning, with a cart full of brushes and pails. They had not brought Jake or Francois, who were being looked after by Mrs Symes, in case there was a scene. The first thing that they saw and heard was the tarpaulin almost fixed, with Joe and Andy working together.
Andy shouted, ‘That’s about it, Dad.’ He clambered down the ladder, saw Phyllie, and grunted, ‘One day this war will be over and you’ll go home and take your bossy mouth with you. You just make sure those children are careful of the pond as they walk to us, and no fannying about on farm property; the stables, the milking parlour, even the fields are out of bounds. Can you get that through your head?’
He didn’t wait for her to reply, but strode to the stables, where Destiny waited, already harnessed into the cart. He began to load his ditching gear into the wagon while his father helped Old Stan with the milking. The whole village worked hard on the barn all week, and by the next Saturday it was functional. It was here that the Christmas carol concert rehearsals started after school on the Monday. If only Sammy and Isaac could be here for it, but some never saw their men at all, so rare was leave, so there was no cause for complaint.
As the children arrived they saw that a table tennis table had been set up. Joe appeared with four bats, and some balls. He winked at Phyllie. ‘A certain person remembered there was one up in the attic, so thanks, lass, and pass that on to our own ganglin’ Hitler, will you? I think we’re on the mend, don’t you?’
She hoped so, and then life would be easier for absolutely everyone, but somehow she doubted it. Things weren’t mended that quickly, but she didn’t share that with Joe.
As they walked home after the first rehearsal – Mrs F bringing up the rear and Phyllie leading at the front – the children started to sing ‘Tipperary’. As she listened Phyllie heard one voice rise steadily above the rest. It was pure and true. She turned around, astonished. She hadn’t heard anyone singing like that in rehearsals. At the back of the column Miss F was pointing to Ron, who walked just in front of her with Bryan. Phyllie turned back, even more astonished, and continued on into the village, dropping off the children at their homes. Ron and Bryan, of course, had been playing table tennis, uninterested in stupid carols.
As they reached Mrs Campion’s house, three-year-old Rosie Campion banged at the front-room window, and then waved. Phyllie said, ‘That singing was lovely, Ron.’ He coloured.
Bryan hooted. ‘Only big girl’s blouses sing carols, you daft idiot. You want to be one of ’em, do you?’
Phyllie snapped. ‘Bryan, what about the singers who are entertaining the troops, or singing on the radio? They’re not big girl’s blouses, are they?’
Bryan kicked out at Ron. ‘But he ain’t good, he’s just loud.’
Phyllie could have kicked him back, only harder, as Ron sloped into the house, head down, shoulders hunched, with Rosie still banging on the window. Miss F said, ‘I’ll take this young man home, Phyllie. You have some sneaky thinking to do, my girl, if you want that particular soloist.’
She and Miss F discussed it later while Jake put the finishing touches to a paper-chain. As he tested its sticking strength, holding it up, tugging it slightly, he said, ‘If my mum could come I’d want her to be proud of me, and see me doing something special. I’ve been thinking – what if Ron’s mum isn’t coming for Christmas because she hasn’t got the money for a ticket?’ He dug in his pocket. ‘I’ve got sixpence from my pocket money that Dad sent for you to put into a post office savings account, Phyllie. Mrs Cummins can have that. If she comes it might stop Ron being so angry.’
The sixpence sat in the palm of his hand. The two women looked at it.
‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,’ said Miss F.
Phyllie said, ‘Pop that back in your pocket. I will sort this out, and if we need your money, I’ll ask you. How about that? Mrs Cummins could stay at the vicarage with the other mothers. The attic rooms are almost ready.’
The next day Phyllie talked to Ron when he took a break from playing table tennis. ‘Is your mother coming for Christmas?’ she asked. ‘I’m sure she’d like to. Have you even mentioned it in your letters?’
He shrugged. ‘Where’d she get the money for the train? So no, course I ain’t asked her.’ Phyllie felt pure anger at herself. She had suggested that the parents should be invited, and had organised accommodation, but not for a moment had she thought through the practicalities. It was amazing Jake who had done that.
Andy entered the barn, coming towards the table. He had a few more ping-pong balls cupped in his hand. ‘I thought I might show your hooligans the finer points of the game.’ The children who were playing stopped. She thanked him, surprised. Bryan said, ‘I’ll play you.’
Andy shook his head. ‘No, I think I’ll use Ron, if that’s all right.’
Ron coloured again. Phyllie left them to it, pleased, incredibly pleased, at Andy’s efforts. That evening she wrote to Mrs Cummins, enclosing the train fare, which Miss F knew by heart, saying, ‘It’s just like railway timetables; I always remember them. Queer, isn’t it?’
Jake nodded until Phyllie kicked him under the table.
Within days she heard the postie, Willie Carslake, who nipped in for a quick cuppa as usual, slurping it as she tore the envelope open. It had been addressed in an untutored hand. It was from Mrs Cummins, wanting more money, to buy a present for the lad. Also, she said, the fare had gone up. She wrote, But once I have this extra, miss, nothing will keep me from my boy.
Phyllie replied, giving details of the train to catch to be in time for the concert. Ron would be singing a solo, she explained, because his voice was so glorious. She enclosed the extra money. If that didn’t persuade Mrs Cummins she didn’t know what would. She also explained that other mothers would be on the train, and that she would have her own room at the vicarage, on the top floor, with a fire in the grate. She felt it best not to mention that the attic rooms had been servants’ quarters.
She carried the good news to Ron at break time, suggesting he might like to surprise his mother, by taking part in the carol service as a soloist. He shoved his hands in his pockets as Bryan nudged him. ‘Oh, what a little angel, singing in the choir.’
‘Step away, Bryan, let Ron make up his own mind. He’s big enough and old enough to do what he wants, and perhaps he wants to please his mother,’ Phyllie insisted. The children were playing tag all around them, while the sky threatened snow. Would it be a white Christmas? And where would Sammy be?
Ron looked at her. ‘How do you know she’s coming?’
‘She wrote to me asking the time of the concert, because she doesn’t want to miss it.’
Ron looked up at the sky too. Phyllie could almost see the cogs moving in his mind, and then up came the question, to be answered as she had rehearsed. ‘How did she know where to write?’
‘All the parents have the address of the headmistress of the school so she knew it would find me.’
On Christmas Eve the train arrived with its full complement, bar one. Mrs Cummins was not amongst the disembarking passengers, though Phyllie’s mother was. Phyllie directed everyone to Joe’s cart, and then ran up and down the platform checking the carriages. No. She ran out and checked with the other mothers, some of whom were sitting in the cart, on straw bales. Others would walk alongside. No. They had not seen Mrs Cummins at the station.
Phyllie’s mother was standing by the cart, tapping her foot. Not a good sign, Phyllie thought. ‘Mum, so sorry to keep you waiting. How lovely to see you. Merry Christmas!’
Her mother allowed herself to be held, and pecked her daughter’s cheek. She wore her usual lavender water, but looked exhausted and had lost weight. Phyllie smiled encouragingly. ‘Let’s get home. There’s room on the cart or we can walk. It’s not far.’ She could see her own breath as she spoke. ‘We must hurry, Joe. The children are in the church, getting ready. I’ll drop Mother at home, where there’s a cup of tea on the go. Oh, looks like we’re walking.’
She ran to catch up with her mother, who was walking quickly ahead of her. ‘The government’s extra Christmas ration of tea and sugar for us all has made it special, hasn’t it, Mum?’ Phyllie took her case.
‘That’s twice you used the word “home”,’ her mother said. ‘You have a perfectly good home in Ealing. It’s upsetting to your family if you forget your roots, Phyllis.’
They plodded on in silence, keeping to the edge as the cart overtook them. They were not alone, other mothers followed, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. Each of them held presents for their children.
Phyllie took her mother’s arm. ‘I never forget about you, Mum,’ she said. ‘I ring a lot, don’t I? Miss F’s at the church, with the carol singers. If you’d prefer, you can come up there with me, but a cuppa is waiting …’ She paused. ‘Waiting at the house, where there’s an Aga so you can warm up. There are some scones, too, with honey. Joe Bartlett has given us a small pat of butter for you. You need to rest, Mum. You look very tired.’
‘Extra butter? Good heavens, we don’t get that in London.’
Finally they reached her mother’s choice: the house. Phyllie opened the back door, which was unlocked, as usual. Her mother sat down at the kitchen table, her hat and coat still on, and her gloves, refusing all food, but agreeing to a cup of tea. Phyllie drew a deep breath. ‘I have to go and check on the children at the church, and then nip off to the station to meet someone who missed that train. She’ll be on the next, I’m sure.’ She wasn’t sure at all. ‘The concert starts in an hour. I’ll pick you up, or send someone. Afterwards we’re having a party at the children’s barn. It’s a bit of a walk in the dark but we’re all used to the dark, aren’t we? I’m so glad you’re here. You must have something to eat at the party; you will feel restored.’
Her mother smiled as she lifted her teacup. ‘It is good to be here, and to have some quiet.’
Phyllie grinned with relief, and said, ‘Enjoy your tea.’ With that, she was gone.
At the church the children were having their costumes adjusted by competent Mrs Symes, and fingers-and-thumbs Miss F. The children were restless. Tea towels and old sheets had been cut up to make shepherd outfits. Ron was to sing a solo of ‘Silent Night’ and his eyes were fixed on Phyllie. ‘Is she here yet?’
‘I’m going to the station to meet her. She wrote and promised, didn’t she? She’s been saving, for this.’ For this is what Mrs Cummins had promised to say when she arrived.
‘So you said.’
Phyllie checked her watch. She’d have to run to meet the train.
By the time she arrived at the station the train was drawing out. Phyllie rushed onto the platform, but there was no one waiting. Mr Hill, the station master, shook his head. ‘I checked the carriages, Phyllie,’ he said. ‘She bain’t come.’
Phyllie stood, feeling desperate, because it wouldn’t be her heart that broke, and she’d thought she’d been so damned clever. Mr Hill patted her shoulder. ‘If she comes in on the next one I’ll tell her where to meet you. If she comes after the concert, I’ll phone Joe. He don’t like using the phone but farmers need one. He’ll come from the farm for her, but you’d best get back up there and flannel the lad with some tale or other, and besides, you don’t want to miss the concert.’
She ran all the way back to the church, and slipped in. She’d worn her best dress, which wasn’t saying much, and with all the running about the seams of her stockings were probably all over the place. Her court shoes had rubbed her heels, and her feet were frozen. The church was full, and the candles flickered in the windows, all of which had been fixed with blackout material. The children’s choir stood on the altar step, clustered around a manger, singing ‘Away in a Manger’.
Even from here, Ron’s voice rose like the angel he wasn’t, but perhaps could be. Phyllie felt such anger, such shame, because she had tricked him. She hadn’t meant to, but she had. She saw him looking at her, and then beyond, searching. She nodded, knowing it was a lie, and hating herself. But this boy had a right to shine, he damn well had.
She could barely see through the mist in her eyes.
The applause at the end of the concert was prolonged and the parents came to hug their children. Ron wove his way towards her, searching, always searching. Taking hold of his shoulders, she said, ‘She missed that train, but she’ll be here for the party. Mr Hill is phoning Joe when she comes in.’
The church was emptying past them, mothers from London, a few fathers, all clutching their children’s hands as though they’d never let them go, their faces full of happiness and relief. Dan’s parents had both come, and they walked with Dan and Jake, Dan’s father, in his Royal Navy padre’s uniform, was holding Jake’s hand, and Dan’s mother was holding her son’s. Francois was at Jake’s heels.
Phyllie gripped Ron tighter, turned him, and walked with him, seeing the braced shoulders, the jutting chin, and she felt something other than irritation for this lad. Perhaps it was admiration, or maybe just pity? They walked together, in the long column, with Jake and Francois way ahead, but not the Andertons, because Bryan had not sung. Mrs Anderton had said they might meet them at the party, which they probably would, Phyllie thought, as there was free food and tea.
She and Ron didn’t talk, they just walked, but as they entered the freshly swept farmyard, she said, ‘A friend of mine said to look up at the sky and when we’re not with the people we love, we know they’re under the same sky, so distance doesn’t matter.’
He looked up. ‘The stars are bright, ain’t they, miss? But she’ll be here, any minute, won’t she, like she said she would?’ Then he saw Bryan with his parents and said, ‘And like you bloody said she would.’ He slouched across. The old Ron was back, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.
The party began with fiddlers from both villages playing. Some children ran amock, some danced with their mothers. All the children, village and evacuee, looked unnaturally smart and tidy. The Girl Guides had earned their badges by sewing dresses for the girls from old skirts provided by the women of the village. Mrs Thomas, who had five daughters in the WAAF, had dug out summer skirts from a trunk in the attic. In the far corner of the barn lay the children’s discarded costumes.
Discarded? It was then Phyllie nearly died, because she’d forgotten all about her mother, and it was as though the invasion had begun, such was her panic. Miss F waved at her from the wood burner, with her mother safely beside her. ‘Thank you, God,’ Phyllie murmured. ‘And you too, Miss F.’
A voice behind her said, ‘Talking to yourself now, Miss Saunders? Whatever next?’
It was Andy, in a suit, as were some of the other men, most of them elderly, and their suits even older. He stood beside her, his cuff hiding his stump. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that we are almost the only young single people left in the world, or in this world anyway?’ There was not a touch of bitterness in his voice, only amusement. She kept her eyes front to hide her surprise. She said, ‘Always. Always it occurs to me, but that’s just the way it is, isn’t it? And besides, we’re too busy to notice, or I am.’
She stopped. Oh Lord, he’d think she was having a dig. She said, ‘So are you, of course. I didn’t mean …’ She petered into silence. He was looking at the dancers, and then at Francois, sitting by Miss F who had linked arms with Phyllie’s mother. They were chatting to the vicar.
He said, ‘Oh, so this is one thing the amazing Francois can’t do, then? I see he’s sitting it out.’
She laughed, and realised he was too. Had he been drinking? His father’s elderberry wine was terribly strong.
The fiddlers were playing some sort of a waltz now. He said, ‘Should we keep the youngsters end up, and strut about a bit?’ He moved to stand in front of her, his hand out. She took it. It was rough from his farm work. Yes, he must have had a snifter of wine, surely?
‘What dance is it?’ she queried as she moved with him into the fray of adults and twirling children.
He laughed, his head thrown back, his mousy hair freshly washed. ‘Who knows? We must just keep moving or we’ll be mown down.’ She assumed the waltz position but didn’t know how to hold his non-existent hand. ‘I’d rest it on top of the end of my arm, if I were you. It’s better than staring at it as though it’s a puzzle that would stump the whole world.’
Stump? Had he said it deliberately? She looked at his face then. He was grinning. ‘What are you made of, then, Miss Saunders? Can you summon up a quickstep? I took lessons at grammar school and can lead.’
They were off, carving a path through the melee. She felt the tension in his body, and knew that beneath the repartee he was as nervous as hell. Over by the fiddlers Joe was watching, as tense as his son. She smiled, because this young man was trying, and that was a damn sight more than he’d done for a while. Joe smiled back now, and nodded. The fiddlers somehow settled into a rhythm and soon others were finding their way to a quickstep. Even Joe dragged Miss F onto the floor, by which time the children were heading to the table tennis end of the room, under the watchful eye of Mrs Speedie and Miss Deacon.
Phyllie said, above the music, ‘Thank you for making this barn work as a play area.’
He replied, ‘You’d have come after me with a chopper, wouldn’t you, if I hadn’t?’
She shook her head. ‘No, a saw.’
He laughed again, and she joined in, but her feet were sore from all the running and her eyes were continually on the door, but why? The last train from London had arrived a good hour ago. False hope was better than none, she supposed. Andy said, ‘Dad phoned Hill at the station before he came here. Ron’s mother wasn’t on the train. I should have said. I forgot.’
Around they spun, and it was so strange to be in a man’s arms and suddenly she longed, absolutely longed, for Sammy with a physical pain. She remembered the ring then. It was still at the jeweller’s. How could she have forgotten it? But on the other hand, how could she have remembered with all that was going on? Sammy wouldn’t mind, and at least she wouldn’t have to face her mother with the news, because if there was tight-lipped disapproval she might well have responded.
The music drew to a close and the dancers wandered from the floor towards the homemade wine being served along the rear wall. Her mother caught up with them, standing between them and the bar. This woman knew all about tactics, Phyllie thought. ‘Phyllie, dear, introduce me to your friend.’
Phyllie did so. Andy shook hands. Mrs Saunders said, ‘Miss Featherstone said you and your father run the farm, this farm. It seems very large?’
Andy nodded. ‘Well, yes, it is, or at least it’s middle of the road really. Mixed farming.’
Mrs Saunders was smiling. ‘You own it, or are you tenant farmers?’
Phyllie sighed, wondering why her mother didn’t just put up a sign declaring that she was interviewing for a son-in-law of status and means. Jake interrupted then, with Francois at his heels. ‘You do dance well, Phyllie. I bet Sammy does too, because he does everything well, doesn’t he? She’s got a ring now, Mrs Saunders, haven’t you, Phyllie? It’s being enlarged so it will fit. They’re getting married.’
The smile on Mrs Saunders face changed to a rictus grimace. Andy was staring at Phyllie. ‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t guess.’
He looked from Phyllie to her mother, and then Jake, after which he blundered away through the crowds. Her mother said, ‘You’re a fool, Phyllis. How could you, after all I’ve said? You could have been secure, looked after.’ She turned on her heel, but hissed over her shoulder, ‘There is one train home tomorrow, Christmas Day, at dawn. I will be on it.’
Jake had run back to the table tennis, unaware of the displeasure he had caused. Phyllie weaved her way outside, and stood in the cold. Snow was falling. Andy was standing there.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ she said. ‘We were dancing. I thought perhaps we were becoming friends, two against the tide of marrieds and elderly.’
He stared over at the farmhouse, the snow settling on the roof, and on his hair and eyelashes, and the shoulders of his suit. ‘He’s serving?’
‘A submariner.’
‘Ah.’ He shrugged. ‘You’ve nabbed yourself a hero. How very sensible.’ He limped away to the house, went inside and slammed the door.
She rubbed her arms, her lacy cardigan hopelessly inadequate, but there was to be no escape. The barn door whacked open and Ron slouched out. He stood before her, his lips a tight line. ‘You said she’d be here. It was a trick, to make me sing in your poxy bloody choir.’ Bryan was beside him now. Their breath smelled of alcohol.
‘What have you been drinking?’ she almost shouted, looking back towards the barn.
Bryan sneered. ‘Never mind that. You lied, tricked him. Course she can’t come, she’s got no money. She never said she was coming, did she?’
Phyllie waited for a moment. How could she say that his mother had taken the money, asked for more, and still not come? She said slowly, ‘I think we should contact your mother. I have the number at the local pub. I think perhaps there’s been a raid and—’
‘We did ring the pub. It’s the one she always uses so I know the number,’ Ron burst out. ‘We sneaked in and used the Bartletts’ telephone, and she said she didn’t know nothing about it, and if she had she’d have done everything she could to be here.’ Phyllie stared at this boy, his fierce scowl, his vivid blue eyes full of tears, his lips that were pressed hard together, his hands gripped into fists. How do you tell a son his mother would take money, and spend it on, well, what? How do you let him think that she’d do that, rather than come to hear his glorious, wonderful voice, and see her son at Christmas?’
She just shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry, Ron. You’re right, I did so want you to shine tonight, to show people your amazing talent, and the boy you are. I’m just so—’
The door was opening again. ‘That’s not true.’ Jake stood there, behind Bryan, the door ajar. Snow was falling heavily.
She tried to reach him. ‘No, Jake.’
He sidestepped her. ‘It’s not true. She sent your mum money – twice – and your mum promised she’d come. It’s in her letter. I saw it.’
Bryan hit him so hard he fell, then he reached down, gripping Jake’s shirt, his fist up to strike again. ‘Typical Yid, all you know is how to lie.’
The barn door opened fully and Francois was out, barking. Phyllie was reaching for Bryan as Joe roared out next, along with a burst of music from the fiddlers. Francois leapt at Bryan. Phyllie dragged the dog off, Joe pulling Bryan away from Jake. Ron just stood there, staring at Phyllie, tears streaming down his face. ‘Bryan’s right,’ he shouted. ‘He’s a bloody liar, just like you.’ He was pointing to Jake, then at Phyllie.
Miss F was out next, shutting the door behind her. ‘It’s a pantomime, isn’t it? A complete pantomime on Christmas Eve; how delightful.’ She came to stand beside Ron. ‘There’s obviously been a grave mis-understanding, and of course your mother would have come if she could. You were the star of the evening, and you must remember that, my dear Ron. Now your Mrs Campion is bringing the younger children away from the jelly; they’ve had too much anyway, and she will be taking you home, after the vicar has praised you publicly. She’s had the most marvellous time, listening to her foster child taking centre stage.’
Joe was holding Bryan in an arm lock. The boy whinged, ‘Let me go.’
‘Certainly not, Bryan,’ Miss F continued. ‘I haven’t finished speaking to Ron. We’d like you to stay on at the party, Ron. Our star should, because there’s still lots of food to eat, and like I said, the vicar so wanted to praise.’
She turned to Bryan, as Ron stood as though undecided. ‘You, however, Bryan, have a mother who is to take you home because you have struck another person. This I will never allow. Mrs Symes is right this minute suggesting, nay insisting, that Eddie trots on home with you both. Jake, up you get, no need to make a meal of the shiner you’ll have for Christmas Day, but first you three will all shake hands. This will then be forgotten. I insist.’
They did shake hands, but Ron leaned forward. ‘I’ll get you, Jake. See if I don’t. My mother wouldn’t lie, and she’s not a thief, so I’ll get you. Not yet, but one day.’
Phyllie watched the Andertons leave, and Miss F escort Ron back into the old barn. Jake leaned against her, crying quietly, his nose was bleeding and his lip was split and already swelling. ‘I’m sorry, Phyllie. I made it worse.’
She held his head against her, her reply fierce. ‘You never, ever make anything worse, lovely boy. You are my sunshine, you and Francois. We are a team. One that is waiting for our men to come home, and we will be strong while we wait, won’t we? We’ll also go on doing what we think is right.’
He stopped crying then, and whispered, ‘Your mother is going home early.’ His smile was mischievous. Phyllie crouched down next to him, stroking Francois. ‘I know. I don’t think she really wanted to come. I think she’s just tired, and worried, and she doesn’t really know what to say or think.’
He put his arms round her neck. ‘I do love you, Phyllie.’
She wouldn’t cry, but her voice shook as she said, ‘Oh, Jakub Kaplan, I love you, and Francois too, both of you, so much. Now, we have a party to join again.’
Phyllie had never felt less like tripping the light fantastic but needs must; though as midnight came around she drew the line at dancing the can-can. Mrs Speedie and Miss Deacon called her a spoilsport and linked arms with her as the music began. She was about to break free when she saw her mother’s face, pinched in disapproval, then looked at her friends. What on earth was the harm? She remained in the WI line-up, and even the pinching of her shoes and the blisters on her heels didn’t spoil the fun.
The party closed with ‘Jerusalem’, and the words filled her with emotion, just as they did at the opening of each WI monthly meeting. She sang loudly, hoping their combined voices would soar to the heavens, and that Sammy could somehow hear them. I love you, my darling love, my friend, my everything, were her thoughts: I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand: Till we have built Jerusalem, In England’s green and pleasant land.
Would Ron ever sing for them again? She had to make sure that he did. And would Britain remain unconquered? They must all fight on, whatever the cost, as Churchill said. Just as long as that cost wasn’t Sammy. But everyone must say that. She looked across at Mrs Symes, who had lost her pilot husband, and saw that though she smiled, the smile did not meet her eyes. She looked at her mother, and her heart ached at the tiredness in her face, the slumped shoulders, but somehow there was no way to reach her.