JANUARY AND FEBRUARY had been their usual harsh selves, with snow, ice and wind. The Home Guard had taken up lookout positions in the belfry rather than slip and slide in the lanes on exercise and on patrol, ending up with broken bones. The vicar had been heard to mutter as he cleared the snow from the path leading to the church, ‘Anyone parachuting down in this weather deserves a cup of tea, not a pitchfork up the bum.’
During these months the school children had gone straight home after school, not to the old barn at Joe’s farm. It had been at Phyllie’s suggestion, citing the dark evenings and the intemperate weather, and Miss F had agreed, after a prolonged pause.
Towards the end of March, Miss F, sitting in the old armchair to the left of the Aga, the one with a seat that sagged ‘just right’, dropped a stitch when they heard the presenter announce that the government was to freeze food prices. ‘At last. That Mr Samson in the town is profiteering, you know. The price of his pickle is disgraceful, and I’m sure it’s some the WI sent to the wholesaler.’ She fiddled with her knitting, caught the stitch and rectified the situation. Jake and Phyllie, sitting together on the sofa opposite, shared a grin.
Jake said, ‘Mr Joe’s opening the old barn again, Phyllie. Mr Andy’s been working on the roof since the wind lifted the tarpaulin and Mrs Whitehead came in and pinned a notice about it on the board. The one in the school corridor by the pegs. She and Mrs Otis were chatting over a cup of tea in the staff room, with the door open. Mrs Otis wished he’d come and work on her roof. Mrs Whitehead laughed, then sort of coughed because Mrs Otis has bought Miss Harvey’s house, and I think Mrs Whitehead is still upset about Miss Harvey dying. Anyway, we can go back to the barn now it’s spring, can’t we, and the roof is done?’
Francois stirred on the rug. Phyllie checked the clock. ‘Good grief, is that the time? You should have been in bed half an hour ago.’
‘But, Phyllie—’
‘No buts. Up you go.’ Jake put the Airfix aeroplane he was building on an old tray up onto the shelf above the pan cupboard, and slouched out of the door, with not a goodnight, or by your leave, and even Francois’ tail was between his legs as he followed.
Miss F said, counting her stitches, her finger flying along the needle, ‘Spring is coming; it really is time the children got back to the old barn, you know. There’s been no ice on the pond for weeks, if that’s what’s been worrying you, or is it Andy and his rudeness? Joe says he’s improving, and after all he’s been working on the roof, for goodness’ sake.’
Phyllie held up the skirt she was hemming for a new evacuee from London who had very few clothes. She said, ‘I’m wondering if Fanny McTravers, who works a few hours behind the bar at the pub, could cope with Ron? It’s too much for Mrs Campion, and not good for the little children.’
Miss F just looked at her. ‘Ah, so we’re not going to discuss the old barn, then? Yes, I have been thinking of Ron, and you’re right, Fanny’s used to dealing with all sorts as a barmaid. She might be just the sort of lass who could cope with him. Her aunt lives with her, and can mind him when Fanny’s working. We’ve simply got to get him away from that ghastly Anderton gang. They’re up to all sorts at Great Mitherton. The public telephone was broken into last week.’
‘Goodnight, anyway, I suppose,’ Jake called from the top of the stairs.
Phyllie laid the dress on the arm of the sofa, and stood, raising her eyebrows at Miss F, who whispered, ‘He is a dear. He actually wants to pummel you for sending him up without answering him.’
‘Coming,’ Phyllie called. Pummel? Was this a dig at her for her behaviour towards Andy? Had Andy told Joe? Had Joe told Miss F at one of the quiz evenings at the pub? He had taken Miss Harvey’s place on the team and had been a surprising fount of knowledge. Well, he should confine his chatting to that, not her behaviour towards his son. She felt herself flushing as she left the room.
The stairs creaked less this week. It was strange how the cold had made them worse. Yes, the weather had lifted, spring was coming, and there was no earthly reason not to resume the after-school activities at the barn. But how could she ever go near the farm again? Shame drenched her, as it did every time she remembered slapping and hitting Andy.
Jake was standing at the window, the oil lamp unlit, the blind up, Francois sitting beside him. She loved that dog, his devotion, his energy, the way he still played as though a puppy, but who was to say how old he was? Together they would look up at the sky, the same sky above his father and her Sammy. She stood next to him, Francois in between them. She turned the ring on her finger. Wonderful Sammy. She dropped her hand, and stroked Francois.
Frankie had telephoned last week. The days were as busy but the nights were much quieter and their mother was getting more rest. They were grateful for the pickle, and the clothes, he had added before, surprisingly, her mother had taken the receiver from him and thanked her for the wool for the knitting circle she had created. They needed more, she added, her voice crisp.
‘Perhaps I can find some. This was from the Bartletts’ attic. Mrs Bartlett knitted,’ Phyllie had said calmly. ‘I’m pleased you are getting more sleep. Take care, Mother.’
‘It’s a bomber’s moon,’ Jake whispered now.
She replied, ‘It’s so bright. One day we’ll call it a hunter’s moon again.’
Which city would be targeted tonight? Perhaps, with the Luftwaffe expected in North Africa, there would be fewer aircraft flying towards Britain? But that would mean British troops would get it. She stopped the thoughts by counting stars because it was all so impossibly difficult and Britain’s efforts seemed to be getting them nowhere. Yes, the invasion by the Germans, which seemed so probable last year, hadn’t happened, but it still could.
She laid her hand on Jake’s shoulder, half expecting him to shrug her off. He didn’t. She said, ‘It will be wonderful when your dad and Sammy get the plumbing business up and running, won’t it?’
He grinned up at her now. ‘Dad said they’ll have to train, but then they’ll live here or in the town. That’d be good, wouldn’t it, Phyllie? We won’t have to leave Miss F, and Mum will like it, and probably my grandparents. I haven’t met them, so I can only guess. Ron will be gone then, back to London, so he won’t be mean to them because they’re bloody Yids, but Bryan will, and Eddie and the gang …’ His enthusiasm faded. ‘I hope the Germans are being kind in Poland.’
She gripped his shoulder. ‘I expect they are. They’re not fighting any more, are they? Try not to worry.’
He said, without turning, ‘The Germans said they don’t like Jews, before the war, though. They hurt Mum’s cousin in Germany.’
‘Well, Krakow isn’t Germany, and people say a lot of things, don’t they? Jake, you and your family are not bloody Yids. I do wish you’d stop saying that.’
‘I think that’s what Mr Andy thinks I am, but he doesn’t say it. I think that Mr Samson thinks it too, but he doesn’t say it either, he just looks and takes ages to serve me, and so does Mrs Wellington when I go with Miss F to her café, with the pickle she’d ordered. Mr Joe’s nice, though, and I’ve missed him and the barn, and the horses. Farms don’t do much, do they, over the winter, but he’ll need all of us children again now the spring is coming.’
Phyllie pulled him to her, Francois pressed against them both. She kissed Jake’s head, fiercely. ‘Yes, he is nice, and I’m sure that’s not why Andy is as he is. After all, he’s grumpy to everyone, and we haven’t seen him much at all over the winter, and only then at a distance, so he might be feeling better. I mean, why would he sort out the roof if he was grumpy?’
‘He did before, and then went grumpy again.’
‘Oh, Jake, sometimes we have to be hopeful. When you think about it, it must hurt to lose your hand, and if that happens, perhaps we lose something else, something inside ourselves. And I think he’s cross because he’s trying to find it. I think in some sort of way, that’s happened to Ron too.’
He pulled away from her. ‘I can’t breathe when you do that, Phyllie.’ His face was red.
She laughed. ‘Say goodnight to your dad and mum.’ He returned to the window, looked up at the sky, and his face said everything.
She tucked him in and kissed his forehead, ‘Sleep well,’ she murmured. The floorboards creaked a little on the landing and the stairs, the cold of the hall flagstones seeped through her thick socks, and she sidestepped to the runner. Her slippers had gone the way of all flesh, and there were none to be had in the shops. In the kitchen, the wireless was still muttering, and Miss F was still knitting. There was, however, a mug of chamomile tea steaming on the table beside the sofa.
Last year they had picked the chamomile that grew in the troughs at the end of the long thin garden and dried it in bunches. They had hung it from the airer that was suspended from the ceiling in front of the Aga. It usually helped her to sleep, but had been failing recently.
Miss F laid down her knitting and took up her own mug. The steam furred her spectacles as it always did. She tutted and removed them, then blew on the liquid and said, ‘It won’t do, it simply won’t. You have avoided the farm as though it contains the plague, and what’s more, you have denied the children the pleasure of it. I remind you that there’s a notice at school, basically an invitation from Joe and Andy—’
‘From Joe, not Andy,’ Phyllie shouted. Even she was appalled at her tone of voice.
Miss F banged her mug down on her side table and sat upright, replacing her spectacles. ‘I beg your pardon, young madam.’
The women stared at one another. They had never had a disagreement before and Phyllie felt like a naughty schoolgirl. Well, perhaps she was. Miss F pointed her finger, emphasising each word. ‘I want to know exactly what has happened. You said Andy was unkind to Jake over the pond incident, that’s all. Now, the rest, at once.’
It tumbled out: Ron’s accusations, Andy’s cruel words, and how she had gone to the farm, how she had hit him, again and again. She ended, ‘I hit his stump. Not deliberately, or I don’t think so, but … Jake’s just said he thinks Andy doesn’t like him because he’s a Yid.’
Miss F sat back, her hands in her lap. The only sound was the Aga crackling and the clock ticking. Above them, in the bedroom, Francois yelped, probably in his sleep. At last, the headmistress said, ‘Let me get this straight. Andy was ditching. He saved the boys, he carried the bootless Jake home, he gave them a rollicking, and you too.’
‘He believed Ron,’ Phyllie cried, her hands fisted in her lap. ‘He said Jake couldn’t be trusted and denied him the horses.’
‘So you went and hit him, many times.’
Phyllie dropped her head, unable to meet Miss F’s eyes. Miss F said, ‘Well, I think perhaps there’s a bit of guilt swishing around here, don’t you? Your guilt.’
It was what Phyllie knew only too well to be the truth, and it was what Sammy had written to her too. Get it over with, he’d written. The bloke saved the little idiots – well, the one idiot was Ron. Perhaps Andy was scared for them, or it touched something he was scared of, who knows? We say things we don’t mean when we’re scared. You need to go and see him.
Miss F said, ‘I suspect that the incident struck a nerve in Andy, who used to be such a nice boy. Jake did what he did: he left the scene, seeking help. Perhaps he was angry all over again, but at himself, or perhaps he wanted to prevent Jake from feeling that same anger and guilt? Who knows? I expect he doesn’t. I doubt he’d put his feelings into words, but he might put it into a roof. I thought our Joe was being a bit quiet on the subject, and I can see why now. It’s not every day one’s son gets metaphorically put over a little slip of a girl’s knee. If Joe even knows, of course; it’s not something Andy would shout about, is it?’
There was silence. Both women looked at the Aga, Phyllie drawn by its warmth and familiarity. Miss F continued, ‘One thing of which I am absolutely certain is that there is no prejudice in either of the Bartlett men.’
Again there was silence. ‘Drink your chamomile, my dearest Phyllie. I think, don’t you, that we both love that little boy to distraction, and therefore we are inclined to tear anyone who hurts him limb from limb. We have to assess the situation objectively, however, and you must put aside your own embarrassment and guilt. Further, we must, above all, remember Jake is not ours, he’s on loan. He will go back into the care of his parents, God willing, and we must celebrate that fact, and, until then, do what is best for him.’
To her horror Phyllie saw Miss F’s lips trembling, and her eyes fill with tears, and she felt frightened, much as a child did, when a parent became upset. It wasn’t just Jake she had come to love, she realised. Perhaps that was why she was able to detach from her own mother, and was interested, but not affected, by her. This woman had taken her mother’s place.
She shared with Miss F the plans the men had of moving to Dorset once the war was over. ‘As long as Rachel agrees, so we won’t lose him entirely.’
She reached for her chamomile tea, sipped it. ‘You drink yours, Miss F,’ she said gently.
They talked into the small hours, and at last Phyllie headed up the stairs, accepting that Sammy and Miss F were right, it was high time she faced Andy. It was also time Jake realised that life isn’t necessarily fair and anger is about many things, not just prejudice. Most of all, that love could heal many hurts.