Orphans of War

by Leah Fleming

  LEAH FLEMING

  Orphans of War

  Alasdair, Hannah, Ruari and Josh

  This one’s for you!

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part Two

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part Three

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part Four

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  By the Same Author:

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  October 1999

  The storm in the night takes everyone by surprise: ripping tiles into domino falls, battering down doors, plucking out power lines and cables, hurling dustbins and chimney stacks through fences and down the streets of Sowerthwaite, past the sturdy stone cottages whose walls have stood firm against these onslaughts for hundreds of years.

  Showers of rolling timbers hurtle into parked vans, flinging in fury against shutters and barricades. In the back ginnels of the market town, the brown rats newly installed in their winter homes burrow deep into crevices as the wind flattens larch fences, blows out cracked greenhouse glass, twisting through gaps on its rampage.

  The old tree at the top of the garden of the Old Vic public house is not so lucky, swaying and lurching, groaning in one last gasp of protest. It’s too old, too brittle and hollowed out with age to put up much resistance; leaves and beech mast scattering like confetti, branches snapping off as the gale finds its weakness, punching around the divided trunk, lifting it out of its shallow base, tearing up rotten roots as it crashes sideways onto the roof of the stone wash house; this last barrier down before the storm races over the fields towards the woods.

  In the morning bleary-eyed residents open their doors on to the High Street to assess the damage: overturned benches flung into the churchyard, gravestones toppled, roofs laid bare and trees blocking the market square, smashed chimney cowls denting cars, gaping holes everywhere. What a to-do!

  The BBC news tells of far worst devastation in the south, but swathes of woodland have been flattened in the Lake District and here in the Craven Dales, so the town must wait its turn for cables to be raised and power to come back on and mop-up troops to clear the debris. Candles, Gaz burners and oil lamps are brought out from under stairs for just such emergencies. Coal fires are lit. Yorkshire homes know the autumn weather can turn on a sixpence.

  The tree surgeons come to assess the damage to the Old Vic and inspect the upended beech that’s stove in the wash house roof. The pub lost its licence decades ago but the name still sticks.

  The young tree surgeon, in his yellow helmet and padded dungarees, eyes the fallen monster with interest. ‘Not much left of that, then…Better tell them up at the Hall that it’s being sawn up. They’ll want it logged quickly.’

  His boss stares down, a portly man in his middle years. ‘She were a good old tree…I played up there many a time in the war when it were a hostel, after it were a pub, like. They had a tree house, as I recall. Kissed me first girl up there,’ he laughs. ‘This beech must be two hundred year old, look at the size of that trunk.’

  ‘It’s seen itself out then,’ replies the young man, unimpressed. ‘We can sort this out easy enough.’ They put on goggles and make for their chainsaws.

  ‘Shame to see her lying on her side, though. Happen she’d had a few more years yet if the storm hadn’t done its worst,’ mutters Alf Brindle, running his metal detector over the corpse. He’s broken too many blades on hidden bits of iron stuck into trunks over the centuries, wrapped over by growth and lifted high: crowbars and nails, bullets and even heavy stones hidden in the bark.

  ‘Who are you kidding? It’s rotten at the core. Look, you could ride a bike down there and it’ll be full of rubbish.’ The young man ferrets down into the divided hollow to make his point. There’s the usual detritus: tin cans, rotting balls. Then they begin stripping the branches, sawing the trunk into rings.

  ‘What the heck…?’ he shouts, seeing something stuck deep into the ring growth. ‘Switch off, Alf!’

  ‘What’ve you got there then?’ The older man pauses. ‘It always amazes me how a tree can grow itself round objects and lift them up as it grows.’

  ‘Dunno…I’ve never seen owt like this afore,’ his mate says, examining the rings, loosening what looks like a leather pouch, the size of a briefcase, from its secret cocoon. Curiously he begins to unwrap the cracked layers of rotten fabric. ‘Somebody’s stuffed summat right down here. It’s like trying to unpeel onion skins.’

  As he loosens the parcel he reaches the remains of a tea cloth; its pale chequered pattern still visible. ‘Bloody hell!’ He jumps back and crosses himself. ‘How did that get there?’

  The men stand silent, stunned, not knowing what to do. Alf fingers the cloth with shaking hands. ‘Well, I never…All these years and we never knew…’

  ‘Happen it’s been here for donkey’s years,’ offers the lad, shaking his head. ‘I can count the ring growth…must be over fifty years.’

  ‘Aye, must be…You OK? Look, that cloths’s got a utility mark in the corner. We had them on everything in our house after t’war,’ says Alf, shaking his head in disbelief.

  The lad is already making for his mobile in the truck. ‘This is a job for the local constabulary, Alf. We don’t do owt until they’ve sorted this out, but better fetch someone from the Hall. It’s their property. I need a fag. Let’s go for a pint…Who’d’ve thowt it, bones buried in a tree? Happen it’s just a pet cat.’

  Neither of them speaks as they stare at their discovery but both of them sense that these aren’t animal remains.

  A tall woman in jeans and a scruffy Barbour paces round the tree trunk in silence, kicking the beech mast with her boot. She is youthful in her late middle age; the sort of classy woman who ages well and has never lost her cheekbones or girlish figure. Her hands are stuffed in her pockets whilst behind her a red setter bounds over the branches, sniffing everything with interest.

  The woman looks down the path to the old stone house that fronts on to the High Street, its wavy roofline evidence of rotting roof timbers bowed under the weight of huge sandstone flag tiles. The tree has crashed through the outhouse at the side, leaving a gaping hole. It’s a good job they’d not begun any renovations, she sighs.

  The scene of the discovery is cordoned off but soon it’ll be all round Sowerthwaite that remains have been found in the Victory Tree, human remains. It will be headlines in the local Gazette on Friday. There’s not been a mystery like this since the vicar disappeared one weekend and turned up a month later as a woman.

  ‘’Fraid it’s made a right mess of your wash house, Maddy,’ says Alf Brindle, not standing on ceremony with her ladyship. He’s known her since she was in ankle socks.

  ‘Don’t worry, Alf. We’d plans to pull it down and extend. Our daughter’s hoping to set up her own business here: architectural reclamations, selling antique garden furniture and masonry. She wants to use all of the garden for storage. The storm’s done us a favour,’ she replies, knowing it’s better to give the word straight before the locals twist it.

  ‘She’s up for good then, up from London to stay?’ h
e fishes.

  Let them guess the rest; Maddy smiles, nodding politely. With a messy divorce and two distressed children in tow, the poor girl’s fled back north, back to the familiar territory of the Yorkshire Dales.

  Sowerthwaite is used to wanderers returning and the Old Victory pub is a good place in which to lick your wounds. It’s always been a refuge in the past. She should know, looking down to where they found the hidden bundle, now in police custody.

  How strange that all this time, the tree has kept a secret and none of them guessed. How strange after all these years…Fifty years is a lifetime ago. How can any of these young ones know how it was then or understand why she mourns this special tree; all the memories, happy and sad and the friends she’s loved and lost under it?

  There are precious few left, like Alf Brindle, who’ll remember that skinny kid in the gaberdine mac and eye patch arriving with just a suitcase and a panda for company with that gang of offcomers who climbed up the beech tree to the wooden lookout post to spot Spitfires.

  Maddy stares down at the fallen giant, now cut into chunks, choking with emotion.

  I thought you’d last for ever, see my grandchildren out, even, but no, your time is over. Could it possibly be that deep within those rings, in those circles of life, you’ve left us one more puzzle, one more revelation, one more reminder?

  Maddy’s heart thumps, knowing that to explain any of it she must go right back to the very beginning, to that fateful day when her own world was blown to smithereens. Sitting on the nearest log, sipping from her hip flask for courage, she remembers.

  Part One

  1

  Chadley, September 1940

  ‘I’m not going back to school!’ announced Maddy Belfield in the kitchen of The Feathers pub, in her gas mask peeling onions while Grandma was busy poring over their account books and morning mail.

  Better to come clean before term started. Perhaps it wasn’t the best time to announce she’d been expelled from St Hilda’s again. Or maybe it was…Surely no one would worry about that when the whole country was waiting for the invasion to come.

  How could they expect her to behave in a cloistered quad full of mean girls when there were young men staggering off the beaches of Dunkirk and getting blown out of the sky above their heads? She’d seen the Pathé News. She was nearly ten, old enough to know that they were in real danger but not old enough to do anything about it yet.

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Uncle George Mills, whose name was over the door as the licensee. ‘If it’s the fees you’re worried about,’ he offered, but she could see the relief in his eyes. Her parents were touring abroad with a Variety Bandbox review, entertaining the troops, and were last heard of in a show in South Africa. The singing duo were looking further afield for work and heading into danger en route to Cairo.

  Dolly and Arthur Belfield worked a double act, Mummy singing and Daddy on the piano: ‘The Bellaires’ was their stage name and they filled in for the famous Anne Ziegler and Webster Booth, singing duo in some of the concerts, to great acclaim.

  Maddy was staying with Grandma Mills, who helped Uncle George run The Feathers, just off the East Lancs Road in Chadley. They were her guardians now that Mummy and Daddy were abroad.

  ‘Take no notice of her, George. She’ll soon change her tune when she sees what’s in store at Broad Street Junior School.’ Grandma’s gruff northern voice soon poured cold water on Maddy’s plans. ‘I’m more interested in what’s come in the morning post, Madeleine.’ Grandma paused as if delivering bad news on stage, shoving a letter in front of her young granddaughter. ‘What have you to say about this, young lady? It appears there are new orders to evacuate your school to the countryside, but not for you.’

  There was the dreaded handwritten note from Miss Connaught, the Head of Junior School attached to her school report.

  It is with regret that I am forced to write again to express my displeasure at the continuing misbehaviour of your daughter, Madeleine Angela Belfield. At a time of National Emergency, my staff must put the safety of hundreds of girls foremost, not spend valuable prep evenings searching for one ambulatory child, only to find her hiding up a tree, making a nuisance of herself again.

  We cannot take responsibility for her continuing disobedience and therefore suggest that she be withdrawn from this school forthwith. Perhaps she is more suited to a local authority school.

  Millicent Mills leaned across the table and threw the letter in Maddy’s direction, her eyes fixed on the child, who sat with her head bent. She looked like butter wouldn’t melt but the effect was spoiled by those lips twitching with mischief. ‘What have you to say for yourself? And why aren’t you wearing your eye patch?’

  It wasn’t Maddy’s fault that she was always in trouble at school. It wasn’t that she was mean or careless or dull even but somehow she didn’t fit into the strait-jacket that St Hilda’s liked to wrap around their pupils. Perhaps it was something to do with having to wear an eye patch on her good eye and glasses to correct her lazy left eye.

  If there was one word that summed up her problem it was disobedience. Tell her to do one thing and she did the opposite, always had and always would.

  ‘You can take that grin off your face!’ yelled Granny in her drama queen voice. ‘George, you tell her,’ she sighed, deferring to her son, though everyone knew he was a soft touch and couldn’t squash a flea. ‘What will your mother say when she hears you’ve been expelled? They’ve been footing the bills for months. Is this our reward?’

  That wasn’t strictly true, as her parents’ money came in dribs and drabs and never on time. Her school fees were coming out of the pub profits and it was a struggle.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll save you money if I stay here,’ Maddy offered, sensing a storm was brewing up fast. ‘I’ll get a job.’

  ‘No granddaughter of mine gets expelled! You’ve got to be fourteen to get work. After all we’ve sacrificed for your education. I promised yer mam…’

  When Granny was worked up her vowels flattened and the gruffness of her Yorkshire upbringing rose to the fore. She puffed up her chest into a heaving bosom of indignation. ‘I’ve not forked out all these years for you to let us down like this…I’m so disappointed in you.’

  ‘But I hate school,’ whined Maddy. ‘It’s so boring. I’m not good at anything and I’ll never be a prefect. Anyway, I don’t want to be vacuated. I like it in The Feathers. I want to stay here.’

  ‘What you like or don’t like is of no consequence. In my day children were seen and not heard,’ Grandma continued. ‘Where’s your eye patch? You’ll never straighten that eye if you take it off.’

  ‘I hate wearing it. They keep calling me one of Long John Silver’s pirates, the Black Spot, at school and I hate the stupid uniform. How would you like to wear donkey-brown serge and a winceyette shirt with baggy knickers every day? They itch me. I hate the scratchy stockings, and Sandra Bowles pings my garters on the back of my knees and calls my shoes coal barges. Everything is second-hand and too big for me and they call me names. It’s a stupid school.’

  ‘St Hilda’s is the best girls’ school in the district. Think yourself lucky to have clothes to wear. Some little East End kiddies haven’t a stitch to their backs after the blitz. There’s a war on,’ Granny replied with her usual explanation for everything horrid going on in Maddy’s life.

  ‘Those gymslips look scratchy to me, Mother, and she is a bit small for some of that old stuff you bought,’ offered Uncle George in her defence. He was busy stocktaking but he looked up at his niece with concern.

  ‘Everyone has to make sacrifices, and school uniforms will have to last for the duration.’ Grandma Mills was riding on her high horse now. ‘I don’t stand on my feet for twelve hours a day to have her gadding off where she pleases. It’s bad enough having Arthur and Dolly so far away—’

  ‘Enough, Mother,’ Uncle George interrupted. ‘My sister’ll always be grateful for you taking in the girl. Now come on, we’ve a busines
s to run and stock to count, and Maddy can see that the air-raid precautions are in place. All hands to the stirrup pump, eh?’

  Mother’s brother was kindness itself, and all the rules and regulations never seemed to get him down: the petrol rationing and food restrictions. He found ways to get round them. There were always pear drops in his pocket to share when her sweets were gone. He was even busy renovating the old pony trap so they could trot off to town in style, and the droppings would feed the vegetable plot outside. Nothing must be wasted.

  The subject of the war was banned in the bar, though. It was as if there was a notice hanging from the ceiling: ‘Don’t talk about the war in here.’ Maddy knew Uncle George pored over the Telegraph each day with a glum face before opening time and then pinned on his cheery grin to those boys in airforce blue. He had wanted to join up but with no toes from an old war wound, and a limp, he failed his medical. Maddy was secretly glad. She loved Uncle George.

  Daddy was gassed in the last war too and his chest was too weak for battle. Touring and entertaining the troops was his way of making an effort.

  Now everyone followed events over the Channel with dismay, waiting for the worst. England was on alert and evacuation was starting in earnest. It was Maddy’s job to check that the Anderson shelter was stocked with flasks and blankets and that the planks weren’t slippy for the customers and the curtain closed. She helped put the blackout shutters over the windows at dusk every night and made sure the torch was handy if it was a rush to the shelter in the night across what once was the bowling green.

  The Feathers was one of five old inns strung along the corners of two main roads between Liverpool and Manchester on the edge of the city in Chadley. It was the only one left with a quaint thatched roof, courtyard and stable block, where their car was bricked up for want of petrol coupons There was a bar for the locals and a snug for married couples and commercial tradesmen.