by Jane Bailey
And I realize, looking up from my burrow, that she is standing there – behind me – and he is looking at her as he speaks. She is blushing.
There is a silence as they look at each other, and I start to feel sick. I pull away, but Heinrich says, “Come with me.”
I am grateful to get out of her presence. We go off together to a neighbouring barn and pick up some wood, leaving her standing in the cow barn.
He makes me a cross with ‘Boomer’ carved on it. Even working at speed, he is deft with his knife on the wood.
“I will make a more important one later,” he smiles. “You bury him now.”
Aunty Joyce is going round with her tray, and I catch her looking at us as I dash off with my tombstone and corpse. Maybe she is sorry now. Maybe I’ll get into trouble later. Either way, I don’t care.
* * *
Tommy is horrified, of course, and we shoot off across the fields towards the lanes and then down to the stile and our special meadow. The cowslips have all but gone, and tall thistles take their place. We run and run as if the very force of our movements will burn up our anger. Over the next gate, and the next, until we’re looking right across the valley.
“All this …” he pants, sweeping his arm across the panorama, “… all this will be ours one day.”
“How d’you mean?”
“After the war … everything’ll be shared up, as it should be.”
I look out at the green and golden fields as they rise up the slopes beyond the stream, the pretty hamlet perched near the top and the sheep grazing sleepily on the hillside.
“This’ll be our bit,” he says, decisively. “And this is where Boomer would’ve roamed. So this is where we should bury him.” We will have to bury the other kittens later.
He breaks off a piece of branch and starts to dig under a beech tree, while I try to take in the heady news that I have a future with Tommy.
It is a long, mucky job, but when we’ve finished we sing ‘The day thou gavest Lord has ended’, which is what is always sung in church when one of our lads is shot down. Then, since drowning was the cause of death, we throw in ‘For those in peril on the sea’ for good measure.
We slump down for a rest after the service, and he pulls out his sketchpad.
“You’re good at drawing,” I say. “I wish I could draw.”
“You can.”
“No, I can’t. I’m crap.”
“You draw a picture just being there.You are a work of art.”
If he is taking the mickey there is also a look of tenderness, which unnerves me, and makes me rub my nose in my sleeve and ask, “What’s that then? A worker fart?”
He smiles and lies back in the grass. “You’re funny.”
I am pleased. Being funny is the best thing that has happened to me lately. “Are you going to be an artist?”
“One day. First I’m going to be a fighter pilot. I’m going to join the RAF as soon as I leave school, remember?”
“I’m sure you’ll have to wait a bit, even if you lie about your age.”
“I told you. I got a way in.”
I pluck sulkily at the grass. I don’t want Tommy to die. If I feel like this about Boomer, how will I feel about Tommy?
“D’you believe in heaven?” I ask.
“Dunno … s’pose …” Then, seeing my downcast face, he says kindly, “Actually, yes. I’m sure Boomer’s in heaven, look.”
I lie back in the grass. It is only here in Gloucestershire that I have ever been able to lie in a field and feast on the complete dome of a changing sky: the giant clouds fleeting across the blue above, but the distant ones stretched around the horizon like elastic bands. The hills have become covered in a thick-piled blanket of green, as trees emerge from nowhere and puff out their soft plumage. I can feel the warm earth beneath me and I can see the shape of it: the horizon goes all the way round in a giant circle.
“I wonder what it looks like – heaven.”
Tommy blows out his cheeks and turns over a new page in his pad.
“You live in Heaven House,” I add. “You should know.”
He cackles and begins to draw. His bitter laugh startles me a bit.
“What’s so funny?”
He says nothing, but carries on drawing.
“What you drawing?”
“Heaven,” he says, and I close my eyes against the sun as it comes out from a cloud. I suppose I ought to feel unsafe with him, after all the things I’ve heard, but I don’t. I feel perfectly at ease. I run my fingers through vetch and clover and trefoils. I hear the gentle friction of his pencil on the paper, the chirruping of two blackbirds who seem to be singing “You say potaytoes and I say potartoes,” and I feel this is where I want to be right at this moment.
“Why did she do it, then?” I ask.
“Bitter, I reckon.”
“What about?”
“Search me.”
I open one eye as if I might just do that.
“Summut wrong, anyway,” he says, continuing to draw.
“Why don’t they like you, then?”
“Did they say that?”
“No, you did.”
“Well … it’s complicated. I don’t really know. You’d better ask her.”
“All right, I will.” Fat lot of good that does me, though.
“On second thoughts,” he says, “perhaps you’d better not … I dunno … “
“Stop saying that! I want you to tell me now! Please, Tommy.”
He draws furiously. “Look, I can’t say, really. She thinks I done a bad thing … there was rumours … an’ she believed them. She used to like me, see. She liked me a lot. I mean, she was going to adopt me an’ all.”
“Adopt you?”
“Well … yes.”
“Oh God, that’s awful! I mean, for her to like you so much and then … it’s awful!”
He nods and scratches his forehead, frowning at me.
“What changed her mind?”
“Like I said … dunno really …” He shrugs. Then he looks up and into the middle distance. “It was brilliant. It was like … I had a family of my own. Uncle Jack – he liked me too …” Then he looks at me again, but at my neck, not my face.
I know how much it hurts to be away from my family. I know the real nausea of homesickness. I flinch to think of his loneliness, to think that he has never had a family, that he has come close to feeling what it was like only to have it whisked away from him. Tears come easily today, and my eyes begin to well up.
“What happened to your own mum and dad?” I ask.
“Mr Fairly said they left me there soon as I was born. Didn’t like the look of me, he says. Says I’m not a very lovable person.”
I sit up indignantly. “Well, that’s rubbish! He’s talking through his bum!”
Tommy breathes a laugh.
“I’ll be your sister,” I say. He studies my face anxiously, tenderly.
“I will,” I say, and then, “What’s that sound?”
“Stay absolutely still. Don’t move a muscle.”
I freeze. The sound is getting louder, and it is coming from behind me. It is almost like footsteps on gravel, but hollower, more muffled. Louder it comes, and louder.
“Now turn around,” he says, smiling.
There, at my shoulder, are the hot wet nostrils of a cow, who is chomping at the very grass I’m sitting on. The head sways up and down, and I can feel the breath warm on my neck. What a sound!
I beam at him, and he knows it has given me pleasure. “There you go!” he smiles, tearing off the sheet from his pad.
“Hey, I thought you were drawing a picture of heaven.”
“Oh … well.” He gets to his feet and turns away from me awkwardly.
I pick it up and open my mouth. Then I shut it again. “Crumbs.”
There is something incomplete about it, with more white paper than tentative pencil marks, but there is no doubting what it is. It is a portrait of me.
Th
ere, I’ve said it again
Term ends. Spurred on by the impact of Tommy’s picture of me, I decide to present Aunty Joyce and Uncle Jack with a picture I have been painting at school for two weeks. The title Miss Hubble gave us was ‘Friends Talking’, and I have painted a masterpiece.
“Thank you,” says Aunty Joyce, chopping cabbage at the table.
“Where shall I put it?” I ask, but I have already put it in pride of place on the dresser, propping the thin paper in front of a plate.
“That’s nice,” says Uncle Jack, trying to show an interest. “What is it?”
I point out the lollopy figures with heads like balloons and weedy legs mixed up with thick chair legs. “It’s the knitting group,” I say in disbelief. “See …” I point out the gangly arms and the brown wool – as thick as my paintbrush – streaming from each shovel-like hand. “That’s Miss Lavish – never-been-ravished … that’s Mrs Chudd – face-like-a –”
“What did you say?”
Uncle Jack suddenly takes out his pipe. I think perhaps I’m going to make them laugh, so I repeat it.
“Miss Lavish – never-been-ravished!” I’m smiling, waiting for them to smile too.
Uncle Jack leans forward from his armchair and says very, very slowly, “Go … and … wash … your … mouth … out – now!”
“But –”
“Now!”
I try to think how I could’ve made such a terrible mistake this time. It must be ‘ravished’ that is causing the problem, but when I think how I know this word, it’s just my dad home on leave, seeing my mum washing up and rushing towards her crying, “Oooh! I could ravish you!” and plonking a kiss on the back of her neck. Is kissing a dirty word in Sheepcote too?
They both think my half-smile is a sign of insolence. But I am so deeply hurt, and so embarrassed by my hurt, that I find myself playing with the edge of the table and humming. I walk over to the sink with lips trembling, still trying to trot out a little hum, but sobbing inside.
Ravishing soon begins to change its meaning. Mrs Chudd is obsessed with the idea of Germans entering Sheepcote by force and ravishing all the women, young and old, in their own back rooms. She has stories from her sisters or sisters’ friends’ neighbours about how one woman in the Channel Islands was tied up with good strong rope and bent over her kitchen table. “You wouldn’t believe it, but she still ’ave the rope burns. Oooh …! They’re brutes, you mark my words!” And then there is the German who tortured her sister-in-law’s friend’s piano teacher, and made her do ‘monstrous things’ to him until she confessed to the whereabouts of the ARP headquarters. She always takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and exhales slowly, “Filth!”
I can’t imagine why the German would want monstrous things done to him. Was he mad? Had war wounds made him a bit confused, or was he punishing himself for being such a baddie? And what was he doing with dirt? There’s a connection here, I think, with Aunty Joyce’s disinfecting, but I can’t quite make it out for now. These knitting sessions are brilliant, though, and sure to reveal all at some point.
Another thing Mrs Chudd is fond of doing is being a woman.
“Don’t forget, Aggie – it’s hard in this war, I know: you’re a war worker, you’re a cook, you’re a mother …” and here her voice would deepen huskily, “… but you’re also a woman!”
Everyone nods in vague agreement, for they have heard it all before. I find it an intriguing statement coming from someone who resembles nothing so much as a potato. I suppose it is important, if you look like Mrs Chudd, to remind yourself occasionally that you are not in fact a root vegetable. Poor Mr Chudd! However does he cope? The postmaster is a quiet slip of a man who means no one any harm.
On one occasion I arrive first at knitting group, with Aunty Joyce trailing up the road behind me. Tommy is there playing a beautiful tune on the village hall piano. I’ve never heard him play before, and the little point of hair on the back of his dusky neck, and his magical fingers dancing over the keys to produce such sweet unexpected music, make me love him even more.
“What’s it called?” I ask.
He turns round, surprised, and stops playing abruptly. “It’s bollocks.”
Aunty Joyce appears at the doorway, and the sudden silence seems to become even more intense.
She stares at him: a chilling, haunted look that makes me bite my nail. And Tommy stands his ground, gazing back at her with such a curious mix of hurt and defiance that I don’t know what to make of it. There is something between these two that is so powerful it fills the hall, and I am utterly relieved when Aggie Tugwell breezes in. “Oooh! Someone get the stove on! Tiz chilly in here today!”
Aunty Joyce makes her excuses and says she can’t stay, and I feel confused. But as soon as she’s gone, Tommy apologizes for being in the way, and starts to go. Then Lady Elmsleigh, arriving laden with old jumpers to unravel for wool, insists he must stay and play for us all, at least for a few minutes.
So as the chairs are set out and everyone straggles in, Tommy plays. People smile in approval and start on their socks and balaclavas. Then he finishes his piece, closes the piano lid, and says he must be off.
“That was beautiful, Tommy,” says Lady Elmsleigh, looking up from her circular needles. “What’s it called?”
“Bollocks,” I inform them.
Everyone stops knitting and looks at me.
“That’s what you said, wasn’t it, Tommy? You said it was Bollocks.” I look at him, hopefully.
Lady Elmsleigh starts to laugh, and this gives everyone else leave to laugh too. I’m not quite sure how I’ve managed to entertain them this time, but it seems to be a success and I feel sure they’re not laughing at me. Even smelly old Mrs Galloway seems to be laughing wheezily: “Tiz all bollocks if you ask me!”
Tommy leaves, but only after Lady Elmsleigh has extracted a promise from him that he’ll come and play her piano whenever he wants to. This causes a little ripple amongst the two-ply, but no one is going to discuss him with Lady Elmsleigh there.
Instead they move on to their favourite topics of local gossip: love and lust. Lady Elmsleigh doesn’t seem to mind, and I don’t count. The thing is, these women have a strange way of forgetting there’s a child present even after I’ve just spoken, or else they are so determined to exchange news that they ignore the fact. It’s true I have perfected the distracted look, and they happily believe that I really am in a constant daydream. I can frown over a mistake, or gaze wistfully out of the window, mouthing the words of a song, and no one cares a jot what they are revealing to me about the inhabitants of Sheepcote.
It’s at knitting group that I learn to spell. I only ever went to school for a year, if that, and I have a dim memory of the alphabet and buying things from a pretend shopkeeper. Aunty Vi taught me to read a bit, but I never really got started on writing. Since Miss Hubble’s been helping me out, I’m beginning to get the hang of it, but it’s the knitting group that really gets me going on the spelling. This is because occasionally, when they’re on a very fruity topic, they do pay lip-service to my presence. They might speak of some girl getting in ‘ti-ar-oh-you-bee-elle-ee’ and some couples in Sheepcote (notably Jack and Joyce) are thought to have not made ‘Hello VE’ for years. Essiex is mentioned quite frequently, and I want to correct them and say I know it’s pronounced ‘Essex’, because my Uncle Frank comes from there, but then I’ll give myself away.
As the weeks go on, though, I learn to spell with a zeal that surprises Miss Hubble, and I begin to throw myself into knitting for England with glee. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, clicking my needles quietly and producing intricate cable patterns while breaking the grown-ups’ code, I am declared an asset to the Sheepcote Knitting Circle.
Careless … or do you just care less for me?
I go to Miss Hubble’s house – or the classroom – for an hour or so every Wednesday, before tea. I copy out rows of the same letter, we practise sounds, I copy out poems, and she even helps me write
letters to my mum.
And then it all begins to bear fruit, because one morning I get a letter.
My mum is not much of a letter-writer, but she does use joined-up writing, and I have to ask Aunty Joyce to read it for me. She plonks the tea-cosy on the pot and begins:
‘Dear Kitty, Thank you for your letter. My you can write now too. I’m so proud of you. What a pity you don’t like it …’ Aunty Joyce hesitates briefly. ‘… there. I’m sure you will get to like it, even if the lady does seem a bit …’ She looks up, but I am running my nails along the chenille table-cover, ‘… of a sourpuss. She probably just isn’t used …’ More hesitation (I comb the tablecloth ferociously, without looking up). ‘… to children.’
“Hmm,” she says to herself.
‘Well don’t you worry the war will be over soon. And I hope to be coming up to see you Saturday week.Well must go to catch the post, Lots and lots of love, Mum.’
“She’s coming!” I yelp. “When’s Saturday week?”
Sourpuss informs me it is in eight days’ time, and I can hardly contain my excitement. In fact, I am so busy picturing showing Mum the hens and how I can milk a cow that I forget to feel sorry for Aunty Joyce. Perhaps if she would just show a little hurt it would help. But she simply clears away the breakfast things poker-faced, and it doesn’t seem to be worth apologizing.
Tommy is not happy about my mum coming. I can tell by the way he says, “That’s nice for you,” and looks all put out. I have to scoop him out of his sulky misery by promising to introduce him to her and asking if he can come and live with us. Then we are both excited, and the eight days pass slowly but busily. We set rabbit snares together, and run home through barley fields high as my waist and awaiting the harvest. We go into town on the back of a cart and sell our rabbits, then use the money for fourpenny tickets at the Gaumont to see Going My Way, and a bag of chips on the way home.
When the appointed day arrives I am up early and Aunty Joyce puts a blue ribbon in my rigorously brushed hair. She makes me scrub my nails and pull up my socks, and Uncle Jack has polished my shoes.