by Milly Adams
Sylvia clung to her words, just as she had clung to the canal, a place she had run to – anything to keep busy, to escape her betrayal. She made herself listen to the sounds from outside.
Verity groaned. ‘Good grief, someone’s shouting. Is it Father?’
Polly was scrambling from her bed. ‘No, it’s my dad. Are they having a row?’
Sylvia joined her team, at the window, and while Polly pulled aside the left-hand brocade curtain, she pulled the right, and together they looked out on to the frost-glazed front lawn and gravel drive.
‘Well, I’m blowed,’ Polly sighed. They watched as about ten men, some with rifles on their shoulders, one with a musket, and another with a pitchfork, drilled to Mr Holmes’s commands. They weren’t in uniform, but surely … ?
Verity was opening the window, but Polly stopped her, grinning. ‘The Home Guard may have been stood down, but clearly this lot want to go on playing soldiers, so let them. Look at your father with his sergeant’s stripes on his arm.’
Sylvia wiped condensation from the window and said, ‘They like being in a team too, it gives them a purpose I suppose, makes them feel useful.’
Polly smiled at her. ‘You so often hit the nail on the head, oh wise one, but quite what foe they think they’ll take on, Lord knows.’
Verity had turned away and was trying to undo her pyjama buttons. ‘Quick, give me a hand, let’s get up, heaven knows what time it is. Joe was going to show us how well he can ride Maisie, and then we can get to the bottom of the Howard House militia. I do just love that Father’s taking orders from your dad, Pol.’
Sylvia said, ‘More importantly, why haven’t Rogers and Mrs B married? It seems so strange to … Well, you know.’
Polly said, dragging on her trousers, ‘Nowt so queer as folk.’
The other two just raised their eyebrows, Verity muttering, ‘Must you always come out with an idiotic saying?’
Polly picked up her folded jumper and hurled it at Verity, who returned fire with a slipper, leaving Sylvia to add to the mayhem with a pair of socks, and so it went on until they were worn out from laughing. They flopped on to Polly’s bed and lay there exhausted but then they heard marching on the gravel, and Thomas Holmes bawling. ‘Left, I said, Henry, I mean sergeant. Left.’
Galvanised, they threw clothes on and headed for the door, only to be stopped mid stride as Sylvia flung out her arm, insisting they tidy the room. ‘Poor Mrs B. We’re not in our cabins now, you know. Well, in your cabin, which is always a pigsty.’
They even made the beds and smoothed down the bedspreads, hearing the commands and the crunch of gravel, then Joe’s voice, clear as a bell. ‘Uncle Thomas, aren’t them up yet?’
They rushed to the window as Henry Clement broke off in the middle of an about-turn, replying, ‘They will be when they’re ready.’
At that moment there was a chaos of falling bodies as someone bashed into Henry. Then a clatter, a curse, and a voice shouting, ‘Sarge, he trod on me foot, cos you stopped, you daft bugger, mid-turn.’
At that, they tore down to the kitchen as fast as their injuries allowed, which was more of a staggered limp. Mrs B, who was busy chopping vegetables at the table, looked up. She pointed with her knife. ‘Sit yourselves down and I’ll bring tea and toast.’
The girls shook their heads. All had changed now at Howard House, with everyone mucking in. ‘We’ll sort out breakfast, you get on,’ said Verity.
Polly went to the playpen, but Pup was missing. Fear clutched at Sylvia’s heart. ‘Where’s our Pup?’ they said together. Mrs B laughed. ‘Rogers has her. One of our brave soldier boys has brought his sheepdog as usual; she will teach her manners. She’s quite safe and they’re both secured in a pen in the vegetable garden. Can’t have Pup falling in the canal, can we?’
Verity slid up to Mrs B and put her arm around her. ‘My, my, you have sorted things out.’
Mrs B seemed to smile at something only she could see. ‘We’ve had your Bet on the phone quite a lot. She has many good ideas. It’s quite tiring, really.’
The girls were chuckling as they ate their toast and gulped their tea. As they dragged on their boots in the hall Joe careered down the steps, carrying under his arm a metal helmet with earpieces. ‘Oh do ’urry, all o’ yer. The aunts won’t let me start until yer come over to the schooling paddock, too. I’m so glad you came at t’weekend, so’s I could see yer proper.’
‘Right behind you,’ called Polly, ‘but give me a kiss first, because we’re sort of aunts too.’
‘I’s eleven now, Polly. I doesn’t ’old hands or give kisses. But cos yer is aunts I will give yer one tonight when me day is done.’ He turned and stalked up the steps. The girls grimaced. Verity muttered, ‘Darlings, I feel very old now we’re labelled as ‘aunts’, and to be given a kiss appointment by an eleven-year-old just about takes the biscuit.’
Sylvia said, ‘Oh, stop moaning, and get up the steps.’
They followed Joe through the yard to the sandy schooling paddock.
Verity and Sylvia leaned on the paddock fence, their arms folded on the top bar as Joe strode to his skewbald pony, Maisie. Verity said, ‘It’s a frisky little thing, but then ponies are. I remember cantering my own pony, Toby, across Father’s fields, where sheep grazed – and what a handful he turned out to be. I hunted my mare, Star, later, but Mother set her at a fence on the hunting field and she died. It was when we were on the cut, do you remember, girls? What a fuss I made, but it was an accident. Lordy, I still miss her.’
Joe was standing by Maisie while Verity’s mother tied on his helmet. He hated it, they could tell.
Verity went on, ‘I can remember Father saying, as he did up the chinstrap for me, ‘If you come off, you could crack your head open, so wear this or it’s no riding, do you understand?’
She grinned as Sylvia whispered, ‘It looks like a soldier’s tin hat.’
‘That’s precisely what it is, from the 1914 to 1918 World War, made of steel, and with a leather chinstrap that Father tested and tested for me. Joe must wear it. Imagine if he came off.’
Sylvia, still leaning on the bar, shook her head. ‘No, let’s not imagine. Your father is a sensible man, you know, Verity. It must be wonderful to be cared for like that.’
The girls fell silent, and Verity put her arm around Sylvia’s shoulders. Once Sylvia would have shrugged her off, but she had slowly dropped her guard and shared her thoughts with them, and it was such a relief, because her last friend had been Harriet. She remembered them playing cat’s cradle in the playground with old parcel string. She looked at her hands and could feel it wrapped around them, as Harriet picked out the crossed strands with thumb and forefinger.
She dropped her hands to her side. She didn’t want to think of the muddled strands of Harriet, postulancy, and the convent wrapping around and through her mind. She conjured up Steve instead, and the mere thought of him made her settle.
Polly said, ‘I’m pretty certain that Sister Augustine and the nuns cared like that for you, and still do, though I can see that they share it amongst all the others in the orphanage, so it’s not the same I––’
Verity interrupted. ‘Oh, I think love can be shared far and wide, but I agree with Polly, which is why, our lovely Sylv, I think you and our other coppernob need and suit one another very well. I know I’ve said it before but you both understand where you have come from, and there’s bound to be a sort of shorthand between you. And there’s also the beginnings of love; it already sticks out a mile from you both, doesn’t it, Pol?’
Sylvia smiled, because as she watched Joe, walking along as though he was braced against the world, leading Maisie around the schooling ring, she recognised Steve’s walk. Did she walk like that, too, because, like them, she was braced against the world? Was that why she had grown to love this child so much? After all, Joe didn’t know yet that his mother was still alive so he was almost an orphan. When would they tell him about Maudie? When she was better and remembered him properly, she sup
posed.
She sighed, because it was worse for Joe. To him his father was someone who hurt him, who was unmitigatingly violent to anyone who crossed or challenged him, while she and Steve just had a blank. Steve, with his red hair, his sooty, smiling face and the feel of his hand as he helped her to the opening of the escape tunnel … She relaxed. Yes, she thought, the girls were right, it was love. But she was suddenly frightened because it was all too wonderful, which was ridiculous, so she concentrated on Joe being given a leg-up now on to Maisie’s back, settling himself, and walking her forward and round the ring. He grinned at them as he passed, proud as punch, and Sylvia wished she could draw him, and somehow capture that smile. But Joe and Saul were the ones with the talent. For her, it was pleasure, and much of that was the link it created with this lad who had every reason to be wary of her.
‘Look,’ Polly urged them. Joe was riding around the paddock, the walk changing to a rising trot. Verity called, ‘Grip with the knees, Joe.’
‘I is,’ he shouted back. ‘Isn’t I, Auntie Pam?’
‘I think you probably are, but a bit tighter, maybe.’
The girls shared a proud smile, and Polly said, ‘Shows how much he’s grown into himself. Saul would be happy, and Granfer too, not to mention Maudie. I do hope she is still recovering well. I must write to them, because they will have heard the news of our debacle.’
At the mention of Joe’s mother, Sylvia wondered aloud when Joe would be told his mother lived. Polly shook her head. ‘Mum told me last night that Granfer says not to, and he is her grandfather, after all. He says that Maudie is still not herself though she is improving. Leon must surely think she’s dead, thank heavens, and that’s her best defence against him.’
Their fathers joined them, leaning on the paddock fence, both of them puffing on their pipes. It was a comforting smell, and Polly said to her father, slipping her arm in his, ‘Had a few spare coupons, did you?’
He took his pipe from his mouth and smiled. ‘Mr Burton, your old boss at the solicitors’, doesn’t smoke, sensible fellow, so he sends down some he gets on his coupons. If Henry performs well in the garden, he gets half.’
Henry guffawed, and Sylvia asked, ‘Does Mr Burton ever come to see Joe? He should, really, because he was so supportive with his legal advice when I mucked up and thought Joe’d burned our butty, when it was Leon’s man all the time. I can’t believe I could have been so stupid.’
There was a brief silence, then Mr Holmes muttered, ‘That’s all in the past and forgotten, so you should forget too, but as you’re all topsy-turvy at the moment from the explosion, we’ll forgive you.’ He winked at her. ‘Mr Burton will visit, with the missus, when they both feel better but it takes time when you lose a child. As you know, the lad was in submarines. His was sunk.’
The three girls looked at one another, shocked: there were so many hopes and dreams down the pan, and now Mr and Mrs Burton would never be grandparents. Thank heavens Mr and Mrs Holmes had Polly, Sylvia thought, otherwise they too would be without children, after their own son’s death.
Henry had leaned forward, tapping his hand on the top bar in time with Maisie’s stride, as Joe cantered the last few paces with his arms crossed. ‘That’s my boy,’ he called, then swung round to the girls. ‘Of course, our hearts stopped when Bet phoned with the news of the V2. We couldn’t have borne to lose you all.’
Verity slapped him on the back. ‘A great massive dollop of thanks goes to Sylv’s Steve.’
‘Oh, do shut up,’ Sylvia said with a grin.
Polly and Verity reached across and squeezed her hands as they rested on the bar. Verity continued, ‘I know I’m going on, but he’s right for you, he really is, and he’s special to us all. He’s given you back your life, so you must live it, darling.’
Verity’s voice was so serious that her father and Mr Holmes looked from Verity to Sylvia. Mr Holmes said, ‘Of course she’s going to live it, and he’s saved you all, not just Sylv. What’s more, you’ll all get better and be back on duty on the cut, and before you know it, the war will be over.’ He stopped, then looked at Henry. ‘Well, we’ll get on differently, I suppose, because we’ve all lived fuller lives these last few years, haven’t we, Henry?’
Henry nodded, his eyes narrowing as he watched Joe. He called, ‘Pammy darling, how about putting up a few poles spread about the paddock and see if Maisie and Joe want to try a few titchy jumps. What say you, Joe, and you, the “aunts”? We need the agreement of the bosses, after all, don’t we, Joe?’ Joe’s laugh rang out in the frosty air. ‘Yer so funny, Uncle Henry.’
As the two ‘aunts’ spread out the poles Joe waited while Maisie tossed her head. Harriet had tossed her head, thought Sylvia and wished she wasn’t suddenly remembering her past so clearly. Mr Holmes was right, she was all topsy-turvy. Harriet had tossed her head as she turned from her that last time in the dormitory, accusation in her eyes, and left, walking from the room alone.
‘Off you go, Joe,’ called Joyce Holmes.
‘Look at me, girls.’ Joe flew over the poles. Sylvia clapped, harder, and harder, wanting the pain so that her memories would stop. Polly put her arm around her, ‘Steady on,’ she said, ‘and dry your face, dearest Sylv.’
Joe called, ‘Why are you crying?’
Polly replied, ‘She’s not, the wind is fresh and making our eyes run. You just mind your own business, nosy parker, or you’ll fall off.’
His laugh rang out again as Lady Pamela sent him round the paddock for one last canter. ‘I love it so,’ he shouted as he drew abreast of them and then careered on.
The girls walked back to the stables with Lady Pamela and Joyce Holmes, while the men headed off into the garden to resume clearing the decks for their spring planting projects, while the ex-Home-Guard patrols continued around the periphery of the grounds. Polly muttered, ‘I dare say the wives are heartily glad to get rid of their men for a few hours, but what enemy are they defending us from, or does it even matter? Perhaps they’re just feeling worthwhile.’
Verity took the saddle from Joe and hoisted it on to the peg. Polly hung up the bridle, while Sylvia helped brush Maisie down. Joe said, ‘I ’as finished my story about Lettie, the sheepdog, Sylv. But I ’as to start a new one for the class competition.’
Sylvia peered over the top of Maisie at the girls. ‘Did you hear that, you two? Joe’s writing something for a competition.’
Polly and Verity leaned on the stall door, arms crossed. ‘Is there a particular subject?’
He shook his head. ‘We ’ave to write about something that we does think is brave, or good, or interesting. But I is not tellin’ yer, nor no one, cos it has to be just our own work. Yer can read me Lettie stories, though.’ His smile was shy.
‘Tell you what,’ Verity said, as Maisie pawed at the ground and straw mites danced in the air. ‘We’re going in now and leaving you with the aunts who are about to bustle in from the tack room after doing who knows what, to what knows who––’ Joe laughed. ‘You’re funny like yer da, Verity.’
Verity wagged her finger at him. ‘So perhaps you’d bring it to our room, or into the sitting room and we can all share it. Have Lettie and Granfer seen it?’
He shook his head. ‘You’ll be the very first. I finished the last line last night, cos I want to get on with the new one at school tomorrow, all sort of fresh in me mind. Give me the brush, Sylv. I’ll finish her.’
The girls waved, and walked, trying not to limp, back across the cobbles to the steps leading to the kitchen. Sylvia said, feeling every footstep as it jarred her body, ‘I really do need to sit down.’
When they had almost reached the house they heard the clatter of boots on the flagstoned boot hall, then two men hurried up the steps, one carrying a pitchfork, the other a musket. They saluted, then hurried across the yard. ‘Next shift for the patrol,’ whispered Sylvia.
They walked, grinning, into the kitchen, which was when Mrs B told them that the patrols weren’t aimless, they were desi
gned to give warning not just of Germans, but Leon, should he discover Joe’s whereabouts. At the first sound of whistles, the police would be telephoned and Joe would be gathered into the house.
Polly gasped, ‘Have you heard something, then? Is he alive? Does he suspect Joe’s here?’
Mrs B, making pastry, shook her head. ‘Who knows to both of those questions with all the rockets but if he’s survived, he found Joe at your parents’ in Woking, so we’re taking no chances.’
She went on to tell them that Joe was registered at school as Joe Clement, his address as Howard House, none of which would ring a bell with Leon, or so they and the police chief, a friend of Henry’s, hoped. The problem was that Leon had simply disappeared after savagely beating Thomas Holmes almost to death when the wretched tyke found Joe living in Woking with Polly’s parents, so was still a threat. People such as he seldom gave up, as long as they were still breathing, and he considered Joe to be his property; it was as simple as that.
Rogers entered, the Sketch newspaper under his arm. Mrs B said, ‘I’ve lit the fire in the sitting room, so it’s snug for you girls. Off you go and sit, and the doctor will be here –’ she looked at the clock – ‘ah, about now.’
‘Doctor?’
Rogers was sitting down, his newspaper open. He peered over his half-moon reading glasses at them. ‘I gave him a call half an hour ago, to tell him you were well and truly awake. It was always the plan, and I think you were told yesterday evening, so best you do as the boss has just said, and go to the sitting room, to save him traipsing up the stairs to your bedroom. He has quite likely come from some farm or other, and his boots will be muddy, and his hands will be cold because he will ride that damn horse of his on his rounds. But then, petrol is still short.’
The girls made their way up the stairs and through the green baize door. They had just settled themselves on the settees which faced each other either side of the fire when Sylvia said, ‘I can’t believe Leon would ever find our lad––’
The doorbell rang. Verity hurried as quickly as she could to the green baize door and called down the back stairs, ‘We’ll get it.’