Song of the Skylark

by Erica James

  But it wasn’t long before that spirit turned to scepticism and the war was seen as a phoney war, nothing more than scaremongering. Not a single bomb had been dropped and yet they weren’t supposed to leave the house without a gas mask. Nor were they able to use their motor vehicles, as petrol was now rationed and just as horses and carts and traps became a common sight along the roads, so too did a stream of military vehicles when work began on reinstating the old airfield just two miles north of the village. The news that there would be an influx of RAF servicemen on their doorstep had been met with great excitement, particularly amongst the girls in the village; it was all they could talk about, so Lily told Clarissa.

  However, the mood began to change when the cost of everyday groceries went up: people were furious and not afraid to speak their minds. There were two grocery shops in the village; the one Mrs Cook preferred was Leek’s, whereas Mrs Kent had shopped at Howell’s, where her nephew worked. ‘Them lot at Howell’s would cheat you soon as look at you,’ Mrs Cook claimed, thoroughly disgusted by what she referred to as the daylight robbery prices Mr Howell was expecting customers to pay.

  One morning as Clarissa walked into the village she slowed her step outside Howell’s to allow a young mother with a pram to pass by. Through the open door she heard angry words being exchanged. ‘If you don’t like the price, you can push off and buy your spuds elsewhere!’ shouted Mr Howell at the customer, a woman who Clarissa had made it her business to avoid since getting more involved with village life. Her name was Virginia Charlbury and she had a ferociously haughty manner. She had been, so Lavinia had told Clarissa, one of the first in the village to cut the Upwoods off socially when it became known they were as poor as church mice. Recently appointed the billeting officer for Shillingbury, she was in charge of finding homes for evacuees. Which gave nearly everybody in the village reason to dread a knock on the door from her.

  ‘Ain’t you ’eard, there’s a bleeding war on,’ Clarissa heard the irate Mr Howell yell at the woman, ‘that’s why everything costs more!’

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that, you dreadful little man!’

  ‘Go on! Get your uppity self out of my shop! And don’t think you can come crawling back anytime soon when nobody else will serve you!’

  ‘I’m speechless at your insolence!’

  ‘Gawd, if only that were true! Do us all a big favour if you were speechless!’

  ‘You’re nothing but a scoundrel and I have a good mind to report you to Constable Fairweather.’

  ‘I think you’ll find Constable Fairweather’s got more important things to worry about than the price of my ta’ers.’

  ‘We’ll see about that!’

  Moving on, Clarissa reached her destination, the haberdasher’s. There she encountered a similar, but mercifully less heated exchange. The price of blackout fabric was now a third as much again as it had been last week. Black card was being offered as an alternative. Noticing that the usual girl who served her wasn’t around, Clarissa asked where Joan was. Mrs Strange who owned the shop sighed. ‘Joan’s only gone and joined the Land Army. Can you imagine such a thing? I never heard anything so daft in all my life.’

  Clarissa couldn’t imagine it either. With her painted nails and pert, made-up face, Joan simply didn’t seem cut out for working on a farm.

  Her purchase of grey sock wool completed, and back out on the street, Clarissa debated whether to treat herself to a coffee at the Primrose Tea Rooms. This was one thing she did miss from America; the coffee here just wasn’t as good. But at the Primrose they made a passable cup, so spying an empty table in the bay window, Clarissa pushed open the door and went in. No sooner had she closed the door behind her when she saw she was out of luck: a man was just removing his hat and sitting down at the last available table, the one in the window. He caught her looking at him and her face must have given away her disappointment for he immediately stood up. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘have the table.’

  ‘No, no, you had it first. I’ll wait for another.’

  ‘We …’ He hesitated. ‘We could always share. If … if that doesn’t sound too forward.’

  Slightly built and only a little taller than Clarissa, he was fair-haired and smartly dressed in a well-cut suit. At his feet on the floor was a brown leather briefcase. A businessman passing through, she surmised.

  ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘So long as you’re sure I’m not intruding.’

  ‘You’re not.’ He pulled out a chair for her, but in so doing managed to bump the table and upset the sugar bowl. While he made a poor attempt to tidy the mess he’d made, she stowed her basket of shopping on the floor beside her chair, along with her gas mask. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, ‘I’d like to say it was out of character, but that would be a lie. Mother’s always complaining how clumsy I am.’

  ‘That is unquestionably the prerogative of a mother: to point out our flaws,’ replied Clarissa with a friendly smile.

  He returned her smile and attracted the attention of a waitress. When the girl had taken their order, Clarissa stared out of the window and saw the five minutes past ten bus lumber into view. It was exactly on time and slowed to a stop outside the post office where a handful of people got off, many of whom Clarissa recognised.

  One of them was Dr Rutherford’s wife and, spotting Clarissa through the window, she waved. Behind Mrs Rutherford were the elderly Finch sisters who were as birdlike in appearance as their name suggested. The spinster sisters lived in a tiny cottage on the green in genteel penury, but would rather die than admit how bad things were. Clarissa had a soft spot for them, as she did for most of the inhabitants of the village.

  Next to step off the bus was Molly Shaw, the vicar’s wife, a pretty and vivacious woman whose husband, much to the horror of some, was fifteen years her senior. They had no children of their own, but on either side of her were two girls, their blonde hair pulled back into pigtails, their floral dresses perfectly pressed, their socks pristine white and their sandals polished. They had arrived in the village with a dozen other children evacuated from London. Molly had told Clarissa how the girls – four-year-old twins and not yet at school – had stepped off the train with their heads crawling with lice and their clothes little more than dirty rags. With no idea how to use a knife and fork, they’d told Molly they’d always eaten with their hands, a fact they’d been most proud of. Watching them now as they skipped along beside Molly in the late September sunshine, it was hard to imagine the transformation that had been wrought at the vicarage. Molly, being nearer to her in age than most of the other women, was the closest Clarissa had to a friend here.

  When the bus drove off, leaving behind a cloud of black exhaust fumes, the man across the table from Clarissa spoke. ‘Do you live here in the village?’ he asked. ‘Only you don’t sound local. I’d hazard a guess there’s something of the American about you. Or perhaps Canadian?’

  ‘I’m half Yank, half Brit,’ she replied with a smile, just as their waitress appeared with their drinks. ‘And I’m staying with my grandparents for what could be described as an indeterminate time,’ she continued when they were alone. ‘What about you, I haven’t seen you around here before?’

  ‘I’m visiting a client.’

  ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘I’m a solicitor. A country solicitor, so all jolly dull, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought that was necessarily the case. Do you enjoy your work?’

  ‘It has its moments, certainly.’

  ‘Is there something you’d rather be doing?’

  He lowered his gaze and stirred his tea.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, unable to resist getting an admission out of him.

  His tea now stirred, he put the spoon neatly in the saucer, then looked at her shyly. ‘Promise you won’t laugh?’

  She put a hand to her chest. ‘Hand on heart.’

 
‘I would have loved to have been an actor, but my parents wouldn’t hear of it. Not quite the done thing in their eyes.’

  It was on the tip of Clarissa’s tongue to say she knew a famous American actress, but she held back for fear of sounding as if she were showing off.

  Effie and Ellis had returned to America on board the Belle Etoile the day Germany invaded Poland. Effie had written to Clarissa to say there had been a horribly melancholy atmosphere throughout the journey, and when they arrived in New York the general feeling was one of relief.

  I worry about you stuck there in England, Effie had written, you should have come home with us. Now you’re stuck there until the war is over, however long that will be.

  I worry about Artie too. I don’t know why he had to take a silly old job as a war correspondent in Europe when he could be a reporter here in America. I don’t know why he wants to be a hero by staying there. Unless it’s to make Ellis feel a coward for returning home.

  Please write soon to reassure me you’re safe and well. And tell me all that you’re getting up to; I so enjoyed your last letter, hearing about the wonderful Mrs Cook and how she’s taught you to knit. Do you suppose she could teach me? She would have to have the patience of a saint!

  Did I tell you I’d been approached to play the part of a nun in a movie with Robert Montgomery? What a hoot! Me as a nun! Ellis thinks it’s the funniest thing ever, that it’s the worst case of miscasting he’s ever heard of, which makes me all the more determined to do it. I’ll be the best nun he’s ever seen, just you see!

  Dearest Clarissa, I miss you more than words can say. In those few days we spent together, I sensed in you somebody with whom I can be completely honest. With everybody else I have to pretend to be something I’m not.

  A thousand kisses to you, my darling!

  Effie

  PS Being a friend of mine is not always easy – just ask Ellis! – but please stay in touch!

  Clarissa loved receiving letters from Effie; they always read as though they had been written at breakneck speed with not a moment to be lost.

  ‘I suppose you think the same,’ the fair-haired man said when Clarissa hadn’t said anything.

  ‘Not at all,’ she responded quickly, remembering what he’d said. ‘I was just thinking of somebody I met recently. My advice to you is if there’s something you really want to do, you should go ahead and do it.’

  He stared back at her with a baffled frown, as if he’d never heard anyone say such a thing. ‘You mean blow convention and all that?’

  ‘Oh, especially that!’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Perhaps that’s one of the many differences between you Americans and us British, you’re more gung-ho.’

  She smiled. ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly, but I for one am determined not to live my life in a half-hearted manner just to conform to some perceived right way of doing things.’

  He shook his head. ‘What a wonderfully spirited young woman you are. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?’

  Charmed by his formality, she said, ‘It’s Clarissa. Clarissa Allerton. And who might you be?’

  He held out his hand to her. ‘I’m Henry Willet, and I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  It wasn’t until they had finished their drinks and were preparing to leave the Primrose Tea Rooms that the coincidence of their meeting became apparent – the client Henry Willet was on his way to see, and for the first time, was none other than Clarissa’s grandfather, Charles Upwood.

  A week after his visit to Shillingbury Grange, Henry wrote to Clarissa asking if he might see her again. She agreed, and the following week he picked her up in his car, a black Morris 8, and drove them to Bury St Edmunds. It was a cool but sunny autumnal afternoon and he took her for a walk around the Abbey gardens. He voiced his surprise when she said she’d never been to Bury St Edmunds before, let alone the abbey ruins.

  ‘I just haven’t had time to go anywhere,’ she explained, ‘I’ve been so busy. And there hasn’t been anyone with whom I could explore,’ she added.

  ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘if you’ll permit me, I shall be your guide and give you a potted history of the town. But you must stop me if I’m boring you.’

  Afterwards they went for a drink at the Angel Hotel. The place was a sea of air force blue and it took Henry a while to push through the crowd of RAF personnel to get served. Once they had their drinks they retreated to a corner and sat down. Every now and then loud cheers and boisterous laughter made conversation impossible, and sensing Henry was regretting his choice of where to have a quiet drink, Clarissa tried her best to show him she was perfectly happy and having a good time. Which was true, she was. It had been quite a novelty for her, leaving Shillingbury and spending the afternoon with somebody who had such an extensive knowledge of the town and its history, going right back to the seventh century when a small religious community was established by King Sigeberht on the site where the abbey ruins now stood.

  While he fiddled with his glass of whisky, turning it this way, then that way, his plaintive blue-grey eyes downcast, she suddenly thought how forlorn he looked and that, almost like a child, his eagerness to please was equal to his fear of disappointing.

  Eventually he seemed to relax and she asked him to tell her about his family and how he became a solicitor. ‘My father was a barrister and the expectation was that I would become one, too,’ he told her. ‘I’ve let them down badly in that respect. Mother thinks I’ve settled for second best.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Clarissa said, thinking that Mother should jolly well keep quiet! ‘What does your father say?’

  ‘He’s not around any more. Dead. Dicky heart. But let’s not talk about me, I’m much more interested in you. Tell me all about yourself and your family.’

  And so she did.

  ‘Compared to you I’ve led a very quiet life,’ he remarked in a subdued voice when she’d finished. He drained his glass of whisky. ‘But I hope that will change before too long. I’ve decided to enlist and join the RAF.’ He looked longingly over towards the bar and the men in their smart uniforms. ‘For now, though,’ he said, turning to look at her, ‘here I am having a wonderful time with a beautiful girl who I very much hope will agree to see me again.’

  ‘I think she might well agree,’ Clarissa said with a smile.

  They met twice more before Clarissa began to suspect that Henry wanted to go beyond being just friends, which she now knew was all she was prepared to be.

  After he’d dropped her off following a gruesome afternoon spent having tea with him and his ghastly mother – a domineering woman who made no attempt to disguise her disapproval of Clarissa – she waved him goodbye with a sense of relief. Her mind was made up; she wouldn’t be seeing him again.

  That evening, when she was reading a bedtime story to Thomas and Walter, who now had a sufficient grasp of English to enjoy the books she read to them, Thomas interrupted her to ask if she was going to marry Mr Willet.

  ‘Heavens!’ she exclaimed, ‘what put that idea into your head?’

  ‘Because … because you keep spending time with him and not us. Do you like him a lot?’

  ‘He’s just a friend,’ Clarissa said firmly. ‘And I promise you, I’m not going to marry him.’

  ‘What about Ellis?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Do you like him better than Mr Willet?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply.

  ‘And Artie?’ This was from Walter, and he was looking at her anxiously with his large, sad eyes.

  ‘I like Artie too. Now then, shall I continue with the story?’

  Ignoring her, Walter said, ‘But who will you marry?’

  ‘I may not marry anybody. Maybe nobody will want to marry me. Have you thought of that?’

  ‘But you will marry, I know you wil
l, and then you will leave us. And I don’t want you to leave us. Not ever!’

  ‘Oh, Walter,’ she said, taking the little boy in her arms, ‘as long as you need me, I’ll never leave you, and that’s a promise.’

  There had been no further word from the boys’ parents. Thomas would occasionally hang around the hallway when he thought the post would be delivered. Clarissa had tried to explain that now Britain was at war with Germany, it made it impossible for any letters to be sent. She didn’t know whether this was entirely true, but Thomas accepted the explanation.

  After she’d kissed them goodnight, she went downstairs. Charles and Lavinia were in the drawing room listening to the wireless. There was yet more talk of food rationing. Everybody knew it wasn’t so much if there would be rationing, as when it would happen. The thought of all the food Mrs Cook had stored away in the larder should have been a comfort, but it wasn’t; it made Clarissa feel guilty to have so much when others might have so little. ‘It’s only what anyone with any sense has done,’ Mrs Cook had said when Clarissa had voiced her concerns about their hoarding.

  Seeing her come into the room, Charles cleared his throat and put aside the newspaper he was reading. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘It’s time we did more to help. But stuck as I am in this confounded wheelchair, I’m as good as useless.’

  ‘Don’t say that, darling,’ Lavinia said, getting up to turn off the wireless.

  ‘But it’s true!’ he said, banging his fist on the arm of the chair.

  ‘What have you been thinking about?’ asked Clarissa quietly. It was never wise to contradict her grandfather.

  ‘We have all this space around us,’ he said, ‘a garden we hardly use. And a meadow. The land should be used for growing vegetables and maybe crops.’ He pointed to the discarded newspaper. ‘If the Germans are successful in blockading the Atlantic and preventing merchant shipping from getting through, there won’t be enough food to go round, that’s the plain fact of the matter. There’s nothing else for it but for us as a country to grow our own, just as they’ve been saying on the wireless and in the newspaper.’