The Skylarks' War

by Hilary McKay

  ‘I do, I do,’ agreed Vanessa. ‘Smoked salmon one day, roast beef the next, ice cream and trifle puddings . . .’

  Mrs Morgan gave her a look as if to say, Just as I expected.

  ‘Well, then, you put them by, Clarry,’ she ordered, ‘and later on you can hot one up and have it with a cup of tea. If your young man turns up you should give him one too; he looks like he could do with a bit of meat on him. All bones, if you don’t mind me saying! Now what?’

  ‘My young man?’ asked Clarry, outraged, while Vanessa spluttered with laughter.

  ‘Now don’t go all coy on me,’ said Mrs Morgan briskly. ‘You’re growing up, no use pretending! I was your age when I first met Mr M and I never looked back!’

  ‘Romeo’s Juliet was only fourteen,’ agreed Vanessa solemnly. ‘But who is Clarry’s hungry young man? Do you mean Simon, Mrs M? Simon the Bony One? My brother, Simon? Clarry, you could have said!’

  ‘I misremembered he was your brother,’ said Mrs Morgan crossly. ‘Yes, him. What other young men do we ever see here? The one she took off to Cornwall, with never a word to her father! Not that I blame her there!’

  ‘How did you know about that?’ demanded Clarry, still recovering from ‘your young man’ and ‘Clarry, you could have said!’.

  ‘Little bird told me,’ said Mrs Morgan. ‘Scraggy old bird what lives opposite and watches every movement in the street! And what did your father say when you came back from your jaunt?’

  ‘It wasn’t a jaunt,’ said Clarry indignantly. ‘It was something I had to do for Rupert. Simon helped me. So did Grandmother. And I don’t think Father even noticed I’d gone.’

  ‘He notices your young man, though,’ said Mrs Morgan, ‘and he makes no effort to chase him away. My old dad was the same. Glad to get me off his hands. ‘The sooner the better,’ that was what my dad said and, if you ask me, yours’ll be much the same!’

  ‘Mine too!’ said Vanessa cheerfully.

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Mrs Morgan, picking up her shopping bag and hitching it on to her elbow. ‘Well, I must be off. Should we not all be blown sky high, I’ll be back on Monday for the laundry, Clarry love.’

  For the sake of the ‘Clarry love’, and just in case she was blown sky high, Clarry forgave her and went with her to the front door.

  ‘Thank you so much for the sausage rolls.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘I hope the factory stays safe!’

  ‘What will be will be! There’s your old dicky bird, twitching at her window again!’

  Clarry waved to Miss Vane, hugged Mrs Morgan and went back inside to Vanessa, who said with unusual seriousness, ‘Are you really so fond of my bony brother, Clarry? If so, may I murmur a few words of gentle warning?’

  ‘I don’t need any gentle warnings, thank you very much!’

  ‘All right, all right, we’ll change the subject! Let’s have something to eat before I go. Not the sacred sausage rolls! I brought cheese. Hospital cheese, very nutritious. We make it into sandwiches and fry ’em in the starving watches of the night.’

  ‘I thought you were all stuffed with salmon and beef and ice cream!’

  ‘I wish. As it is, we are practically vegetarian. Come on, Clarry! Food, before I keel over. Then I must go. I only meant to stop for a minute to check you were all right. I haven’t seen you since Southampton. Promise you’re not falling in love with Simon!’

  ‘Oh, Vanessa! First Mrs Morgan and now you! You needn’t worry. Do you really think I’ve fallen in love with Simon? I just like him. I like him so much; he’s so kind and he tries so hard. We’re friends.’

  ‘Good,’ said Vanessa. ‘I love you liking him! He needs people to like him. He’s hardly ever happy, poor Simon.’

  ‘He was happy rescuing Lucy from under Grandfather’s nose.’

  ‘Yes, he told me. He does tell me things sometimes. I’m sorry, Clarry. I was interfering with my gentle warnings! I was being like Matron when she tells me things for my own good, about nice girls not needing lipstick, and not getting fond of patients. And about my voice . . .’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It gets loud, she says. And loud is vulgar! Does it get loud?’

  ‘Hardly ever.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Vanessa. ‘You too! Never mind. Tell me, how is darling school? Do they miss me? Have I been mentioned in Those in Our Thoughts Today?’

  ‘Of course. Let us hold in our thoughts today Vanessa Bonnington. Loud and vulgar but very much missed.’

  Vanessa burst out laughing, and then said, ‘You love it, don’t you, Clarry? School? More than I ever did.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Clarry, her face suddenly bright. ‘I really do. It gets better and better and better!’

  Winter 1915

  TWENTY-ONE

  Saved by Books

  In Cornwall, Clarry had found one world of freedom; at school she discovered another, even more of a refuge than the first had been. She needed a refuge now, more than ever. The war filled her with fear when she thought of Rupert. School was not an escape from that fear, but it kept her mind busy and tired her, so she slept at night. Lately, it had also given her hope for a future that one day might make her truly independent.

  After the war, thought Clarry.

  It was comforting to think that one day there really would be a time after the war.

  Meanwhile, there were books. Clarry carried them around in armloads. Up in her room she would pile books on to her bed, and curl up beside them to read. She slept with them within reach, comforting, solid companions to help her through the dark dreams. Nothing about school dismayed her. The cold classrooms and the constant demands for quietness, which other girls complained about, did not bother her at all. Her home, with its clammy rooms and long silences, made school positively cheerful in comparison.

  Best of all, she found that she had a brain, a good, quick brain that could see patterns in maths and links in history, was entranced by science, and was getting faster and faster at decoding Latin and French. When Peter came home at Christmas and inspected her work, he nodded with satisfaction.

  ‘It was you who started me off,’ said Clarry, and saw for a moment the secret, hidden Peter, eyes gleaming with pride in their joint success.

  ‘Has Father said anything?’ he asked.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You. School. What you will do afterwards.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t,’ said Clarry, but something in the way she spoke made Peter say, ‘Somebody has!’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Clarry. ‘When I got moved up faster than the rest.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Twice, at the beginning. And last year I won a little shield for Student of the Year.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, you know how the Head invites people to her study?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘For tea. And to talk. When I went, I told her about you going to Oxford . . .’

  ‘If I get a scholarship!’ interrupted Peter.

  ‘You will,’ said Clarry certainly, ‘and she, my Head, said I should think about it too.’

  ‘Your Head thinks you could get an Oxford scholarship?’ asked Peter, and then, a moment later, he said slowly: ‘She’s right. You could get an Oxford scholarship.’

  ‘Not for years, though.’

  ‘Well, you need years!’ said Peter robustly. ‘You’re nowhere near yet! And it would be worth it. It would get you out of this place one day, wouldn’t it?’

  They were in the sitting room, every year more faded and unwelcoming.

  ‘Father doesn’t notice it, I don’t think,’ said Clarry. ‘He’s out so much I hardly see him. But if I didn’t have school to go to I don’t think I could bear it here. I’ll have to do something when I leave. I was thinking of Vanessa and her hospital but she pretended to be much older than she was to get in. I don’t think I could do that. I don’t look grown-up.’

  ‘You don’t have to look grown-up to go to Oxfo
rd. You just have to have brains. Do you ever see Vanessa?’

  ‘Yes, once I went to Southampton and she comes quite often if she’s visiting the cottage. She’s not supposed to, but she borrows her dad’s car. She makes Mrs Morgan laugh, and even Father smiles sometimes.’

  ‘Does she ever . . .’ Peter picked up a book and began turning the pages very rapidly. ‘Does she ever ask about . . . anyone?’

  ‘She asks about everyone,’ Clarry told him sturdily. ‘You and me. Simon, if he’s been here, Rupert, of course, and what he’s doing . . . you know, in France.’

  ‘Belgium,’ said Peter.

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘I think so. I hate my leg. Don’t say, “Does it hurt?” It serves me right if it hurts. I’m a coward.’

  ‘Peter, you are not!’

  ‘I tell people I fell. I don’t tell them how!’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault!’

  ‘Of course it was! I jumped off a train to get out of school. What would Vanessa say if she knew that?’

  ‘You told Simon, so perhaps she already does. She wouldn’t say you were a coward anyway! How could you have known there would be a war?’

  ‘I wish I could do something to help.’

  ‘Vanessa helps. I think that’s how she stays so happy. She talks about terrible things, awful injuries, and then she tells me about people who get better. And she has fun. She loves it.’

  ‘Dancing,’ said Peter gloomily, glaring at his leg.

  ‘Lots of things. She’s either terrifically busy or falling asleep, and she smells all the time of carbolic soap. Last time she was here Father said, “Good God, what is that appalling smell?” and Vanessa said, “Darling, it’s meeee!” and laughed and laughed.’

  ‘What did Father do?’

  ‘Oh, he just went away as fast as he could.’

  ‘Typical,’ grunted Peter. ‘Clarry, is there any food? I’m starving! I should like bacon and sausages and grilled tomatoes! All right! You needn’t laugh. I know it will just be toast!’

  ‘It won’t! We have sausage rolls!’ said Clarry jubilantly. ‘From Mrs Morgan’s munitions canteen! She’s been keeping me supplied with them, every time a batch gets burned! She came yesterday and brought some more. Come into the kitchen! There are six. Shall we hot them up or eat them like they are?’

  ‘One each as they are now, two more hotted up. I haven’t had anything to eat all day, and then it was only porridge.’

  ‘One each hotted up,’ said Clarry firmly. ‘I’m keeping two for Father. Toast and apples afterwards, and there’s a pot of honey I’ve been saving. A patient gave it to Vanessa and she gave it to . . .’

  ‘Me,’ Clarry had been about to say, but changed it to ‘us’ and saw her brother’s face brighten briefly and then grow sombre again as he said, ‘I’ve got to plan what to do after school. I used to think, if I could, I’d go to Oxford and study natural sciences, but how will that help anyone?’ He got up from the table suddenly and began pacing and rubbing at his leg. ‘It cramps,’ he said apologetically. ‘It never mended properly. It was badly set.’

  Clarry had learned that saying ‘Poor old Peter’ only aggravated him, so instead she asked something she had been saving for a long time, for when they were safely alone.

  ‘Can I show you a picture I found in the old dictionary?’

  ‘What sort of picture?’

  ‘A photograph. Wait!’

  Ever since she had found the dictionary, Clarry had hardly let it out of her sight. Now she produced it from her school bag, carefully unwrapping it from a piece of brown paper. ‘I’ve been wanting to show you for ages,’ she said. ‘Only I’ve been so afraid it would make you sad. Look!’

  Peter took the little picture, stared in disbelief, turned it over, read the back, and then, to Clarry’s great relief, laughed in delight.

  ‘That’s her! I remember! That’s just how I remember! How brilliant, Clarry! Doesn’t she look like you?’

  ‘That’s what Vanessa said.’

  ‘You showed it to Vanessa?’

  ‘Yes, that time I went to Southampton. Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not. But why?’

  Rather hesitantly at first, Clarry told him about Mrs Morgan, and her description of their mother’s illness, and how afterwards she, Clarry, had needed to talk to someone who would understand, because all her life it had been dreadful, believing—

  ‘Listen, Clarry!’ interrupted Peter at this point. ‘When I was a kid I believed that too. But I was stupid; I saw that years and years ago. It wasn’t your fault; you didn’t choose any of it. Vanessa should have told you that.’

  ‘She did. And she said she knew you didn’t blame me. She said you were much too decent. I wish someone could have helped Mother, though, Peter. Wouldn’t everything have been different now if they had?’

  Peter nodded, picking up the little picture again.

  ‘Vanessa says you can get copies of photographs,’ Clarry told him. ‘How much do you think it costs? Might there be somewhere in Oxford?’

  ‘I’ll find out,’ promised Peter. ‘And one day we’ll do it, however much it costs.’

  ‘Take it with you, then. It’ll be safer with you. Father might—’

  She jumped suddenly at the sound of the front door. They glanced at each other, Peter stowed the picture back in the dictionary, the dictionary in his bag, and his bag under his arm, while Clarry hurried into the hall.

  There he was, meticulously rolling his umbrella, taking off his hat.

  ‘Hello, Father!’ said Clarry brightly. ‘You’re just in time. I’ve filled the kettle for tea and we saved you hot sausage rolls!’

  ‘I’ve eaten, thank you, Clarry. Is Peter back again? I see his coat.’

  ‘I’m here,’ said Peter, appearing with his bag. ‘How are you, Father?’

  ‘Quite well, rather too busy at the office. All well with you?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘I lit a little fire in the sitting room to make it comfortable for you,’ said Clarry.

  ‘Thank you, very thoughtful,’ said her father, and went in and closed the door.

  ‘I expect he’s tired,’ said Clarry.

  ‘What he is . . .’ began Peter, and then looked at Clarry, and shut up, a thing he would not have done a year before, but then, Peter was changing.

  Summer 1916

  TWENTY-TWO

  Death of a Friend

  The winter that followed was very hard to bear. The war news was terrible. No one heard from Rupert. School helped Clarry through: the sane, cold classrooms, the friendly faces, the solid comfort of books.

  In spring they said, ‘Well at least it’s spring,’ but no one dared say, ‘Over by Christmas.’ And then summer came round again, and to Clarry’s complete surprise her grandmother wrote to ask her and Peter to visit. Clarry and her father met at the foot of the stairs, each holding a letter, each smiling with delight.

  ‘Very helpful, very helpful,’ said Clarry’s father, rubbing his hands together. ‘No more than they should do, of course, but even so . . . er . . .’

  Clarry looked at him in sudden apprehension, recognizing that something uncomfortable was coming.

  ‘I have been wondering if it would be sensible for you to . . . be in Cornwall long-term.’

  ‘Long-term?’

  ‘Out of danger. Air raids. I suppose you can’t be expected to know, but there were air raids on London only a few weeks ago. Zeppelins. Very unpleasant.’

  ‘We had a talk about Zeppelins at school from the geography teacher,’ said Clarry. ‘She said we were not to fuss about air raids because the prevailing winds from the Atlantic make it almost impossible that the Zeppelin airships will ever come so far west.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said her father impatiently, ‘I’m sure your grandparents would be glad to have you. There is no need for you to stay on at school once you are over fourteen.’

  ‘There is! There is!’

  ‘I guess
ed you would argue. Very well. At any rate, you will be away for the summer, which is something.’

  It was something. It was the summer that Clarry properly made friends with her grandmother. Peter, whose last year of school was coming up, spent most of his time studying. Clarry took schoolbooks with her too, but she also found time to garden with her grandmother in the long silky summer evenings, and to look through photograph albums of Victorian strangers who might, or might not, have been distant relations. Last of all came herself, Peter and Rupert.

  ‘Rupert is very like his mother used to be,’ said her grandmother. ‘Those golden good looks! We hardly hear from him, you know. I write to him weekly and his grandfather sends messages but there has been nothing back for months.’

  Clarry didn’t reply. She had heard from Rupert, a few forlorn lines that she thought it best her grandmother didn’t know: I’m sorry, Clarry. It’s all a bit of a mess, isn’t it? I try not to let myself think.

  His friend was dead. His wild, mad, Latin-quoting, football-captain, red-haired friend Michael. Killed in no-man’s-land, a mile or so from where Rupert was stationed, but word had come racing down the trenches to him. ‘He’s out there. We can’t fetch him in.’

  ‘I’ll fetch him in,’ said Rupert, and went crawling out into the terrible summer night, through cracked swamps of mud and splintered metal and wire, and stiffened bundles that were not men or trees or anything recognizable any more. Miraculously, although the dark was splattered with gunfire, no sniper’s bullet found him, and he came to his friend all broken in a shell hole, still alive but clammy cold. There were strange shapes where his boots should have been and his right arm ended too soon but he got one eye open and croaked, ‘Rosy,’ out of the good side of his mouth.

  Rupert pulled flasks from his pockets and said, ‘Rum? Water? Come on, my mad Irish,’ but he couldn’t swallow. So then Rupert lay beside him and put his arms round him and said, ‘We’ll get out a stretcher party and have you back before the pubs shut,’ and his friend’s good eye glared at him, the white showing bright. ‘Go to sleep; get your head down,’ said Rupert. ‘Busy day tomorrow, if we’re to get you home before dark.’