The Skylarks' War

by Hilary McKay

  Worth it, though, thought Clarry. It was not just the six shillings, welcome as they were; it was the warm house waiting at the end of the day, the half-grown kitten sleeping in the armchair, the teapot standing beside the cups, the pot of jam and the plate piled with brown bread and butter, ready to be shared before they got down to work.

  At first, Clarry had hesitated at joining in with tea.

  ‘There are four cups, Miss Penrose,’ a kind twin had pointed out, ‘and four plates.’

  Miss Penrose. That was how Miss Fairfax had introduced her to the children. ‘Here is Miss Penrose, and you are extraordinarily lucky to have her!’ she had said, and given Clarry a firm Get on with it nod as she left them at the gate.

  Clarry had fought back the desire to say ‘Call me Clarry!’ and got on with it.

  It helped being ‘Miss Penrose’, much to her surprise. Miss Penrose could do things that Clarry would have found difficult. Miss Penrose could say, ‘Tell me what you can remember from yesterday,’ or, ‘Robbie, I think you need to wash your buttery hands.’ It made her feel grown-up and confident. And already she was really helping. Often now a twin cried out, ‘Oh yes, I understand!’

  Clarry loved it when someone understood.

  Six-year-old Robbie had joined in from the first day. ‘Teach me too!’ he had begged, climbing up to the table. At first he simply toiled over copying pictures Clarry drew for him. Then she drew him a kitten reading a book, and suddenly he was reading too. He loved words that rhymed.

  Kitten.

  Mitten, he copied, breathing heavily over the paper.

  Ritten, he added triumphantly, all by himself. ‘Look, Miss Penrose, I’ve written “ritten”!’

  ‘You really have!’ exclaimed Clarry, equally proud.

  ‘Last week he could only write Rob,’ observed a twin. ‘R-O-B. That was all.’

  ‘Last week I cried in maths,’ said the other twin. ‘From fractions! Imagine crying at fractions now!’

  Years before, Peter had taught Clarry fractions with apple slices at the kitchen table. Now she was teaching kitchen-table fractions herself, this time with bread and butter, but just as successfully. For a whole week no slice of bread was eaten before it had been divided into halves, thirds, quarters, sixths and twelfths. Now the twins could juggle fraction sums with ease.

  ‘Two-thirds minus one-quarter,’ they said, studying their plates with care. ‘That’s eight-twelfths minus three-twelfths. Five-twelfths! Easy! You almost don’t need the bread and butter!’

  ‘I hear you’re coping very well,’ said Miss Fairfax, at school. ‘Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘I love it,’ said Clarry, and it was true, but still it made an awful lot of late-night homework.

  On Saturdays, it was always Rupert’s letter that Clarry began first.

  Dear Rupert,

  The moon last night was like a picture in a book, a silver crescent with a big star nearby that was the planet Venus. I made a wish.

  I have got a job now, Rupe. I am a mother’s help! I earned six shillings last week! It was very hard not to rush to the shops and spend it all – I did buy a bottle of silver ink in the stationer’s. Unfold this little piece of black paper and you will see the moon and Venus shining over the chimney pots. I drew them for you. The silver cat is a real cat that belongs to the people I work for. His name is Mr Paws.

  Grandmother writes that Grandfather is not well. She says his chest is very wheezy, and he won’t go out of the house any more. She is quite well herself, though, and she says nothing changes in Cornwall. I am glad about that. I like to think that every day our train huffs into the station, and stops in a cloud of steam. And people come hurrying over the footbridge to meet it, and you can see the sea as soon as you jump out, blue and green, behind the red rooftops.

  I have to go. Miss Vane has arrived with a cookery book. She says it will help me take care of my poor father.

  With love and a hug from Clarry

  As well as the cookery book, Miss Vane had brought a flabby parcel of liver, wrapped up in brown paper.

  ‘Liver needs an onion with it,’ she told Clarry. ‘Have you an onion?’

  ‘No,’ said Clarry thankfully.

  ‘I thought not, so I brought you one.’

  Clarry looked fearfully at the brown-paper bundle and asked if Miss Vane had rather not keep it for her cats.

  ‘Clarry dear, there’s a war on,’ said Miss Vane, rather sternly. ‘My cats are managing on beast heart. I was very lucky to find this liver, and I thought of you straight away. The only difficulty is that it needs cooking at once, and I have to be out at a Red Cross meeting so I won’t be able to help.’

  ‘Couldn’t it be cooked tomorrow?’ pleaded Clarry.

  ‘I’m afraid by then it will be off,’ said Miss Vane solemnly, ‘which is why it was so cheap. I have bookmarked a simple recipe and I’m sure you will manage. Liver doesn’t take long. You can have it tomorrow with a baked potato and that will be a very nice lunch.’

  ‘But you said it would be off!’

  ‘Not cooked,’ said Miss Vane patiently, always remembering that Clarry hadn’t a mother to teach her such things. ‘Cooking will save it. I must hurry. We’re packing parcels for the Italian front where they are having a dreadful time.’

  ‘I’m a coward,’ said Clarry remorsefully. ‘I’ll cook it. Will you come to lunch if it works?’

  ‘I should be delighted,’ said Miss Vane heroically, ‘and I will bring a rhubarb pudding. There’s a rhubarb glut, and I bought a great bundle.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Clarry. She detested rhubarb, and the thought of the liver appalled her, but she was determined to be brave and so she opened the cookery book, unwrapped the brown paper, blinked only for a moment and then began steadily following instructions. It was a peacetime recipe, so she had to improvise a little, with snipped-up (churchyard) grass for thyme, and cough syrup for sherry. She nearly forgot the onion on which Miss Vane had encouraged her to believe the success of the whole enterprise depended. Still, when it was done, she had gained so much courage that she was able to think of her most difficult task of all.

  Clothes.

  Somehow, she had to buy clothes.

  Clothes that would do for Speech Day (the poshest of the posh but nothing anyone would notice) and Oxford (‘Do make an effort, Clarry!’). She had twelve shillings from Mrs Grace, and the train fare she wouldn’t need from her father, less one shilling and sixpence for silver ink.

  One pound and sixpence.

  Enough to make a start.

  But where to start?

  Stockings, she thought, remembering Vanessa, who had not been polite about her old woolly ones, darned by Clarry with lumpy black knots. Vanessa’s stocking tutorial had been surprisingly useful. She had demonstrated with her own collection: silk stockings for best (five shillings and sixpence a pair), cream lace for second best (less expensive than silk) and black for everyday. (‘Only two shillings! Have a pair! Have two, and some silk ones! Or lace, at least! Go on, Clarry, please!’) But Clarry had shaken her head and said no.

  I’ll buy my own stockings! Clarry thought as she walked into town, and here was a haberdasher’s, and there, by great good luck, was a box on the floor full of lace stockings – cream, white and black – all jumbled together and smelling rather musty.

  BARGAINS!

  – read the label on the box.

  ‘I just this minute put them out,’ the shop assistant told her. ‘We had a pipe burst and the stock got damp. Three pairs for two shillings!’

  ‘How much for one pair?’

  ‘One pair!’ sniffed the assistant. ‘You don’t want just one pair. You won’t find a bargain like this in a hurry!’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Once in a lifetime,’ said the assistant fervently. ‘You’ll need to match them yourself, though!’

  That was easier said than done, but at last Clarry untangled her way to three matching pairs, and the assistant rolled them up
and put them in a bag, assuring her, ‘They’ll wash!’ when she sniffed them.

  ‘Of course they will,’ said Clarry, and went skipping into the street, and there, right opposite, was the stationer’s that had sold the silver ink and, before she knew it, she was opening the door, because ever since the silver ink, she had thought about gold, and now she had a pocket full of money, and the stockings had been such a bargain.

  They not only had gold ink, they had purple scented with violets. Or so it said on the box.

  ‘Does it really smell of violets?’ she asked the bored shop girl, who was watching her.

  ‘Course it does.’

  ‘Could I smell it?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Goodness!’ said Clarry, when the bottle had been opened. ‘It really does! How gorgeous!’

  ‘We got a pink one too, smells of roses,’ offered the girl, and that bottle was opened too. Clarry was swept away with the thought of sending a letter to Rupert, and him opening it up and smelling flowers. Roses, such as grew in the garden in Cornwall.

  Or violets. Violets grew there too.

  ‘I’ll have both!’ she said recklessly, handing over the money.

  ‘What about the gold? I can let you have it for a shilling if you buy the other two.’

  Clarry hovered in agony.

  ‘Or ninepence. Half price.’

  Half price was irresistible. Clarry nodded.

  ‘I like them flower ones,’ said the girl chattily, once she had got Clarry’s money safely in the till. ‘We sell ’em for love letters.’

  ‘Love letters!’ exclaimed Clarry. ‘I wasn’t going to . . .’

  ‘I used the violet myself when I wrote to the front,’ continued the girl, ignoring her. ‘When. Not any more.’

  ‘Oh no!’ said Clarry.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘I’m very, very sorry.’

  ‘Found himself a French girl! A French mam’selle! After all those letters! And tobacco! And cake! I’m done with him! You be careful!’

  ‘It’s my cousin I write to.’

  ‘Makes no difference. What are you doing now?’

  ‘I’ve got to buy clothes,’ said Clarry. ‘To wear to Oxford.’

  ‘Is it an interview?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘You need a hat!’ said the girl. ‘A proper one. Not that school mushroom thing you’re wearing now. Shall I come with you?’

  ‘What about the shop?’

  ‘I’ll put “Closed” on the door,’ said the girl. ‘It’s my aunt’s shop. She’s round the back. She’ll never notice, not for five minutes. I haven’t bought a hat for ages! Come on! I’ll show you my favourite place. They’ve got a sale in the basement.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘They always have!’ said the girl, hurrying her out of the door. ‘What colour d’you fancy? Blue?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Black? Black comes in for funerals.’

  For some reason this made them both stagger with laughter.

  ‘Orange!’ said Clarry, swinging her bags and suddenly enjoying herself very much.

  ‘Gold, not orange,’ said the girl knowledgeably. ‘They call it gold in hats! You couldn’t, though, not for an interview. Grey?’

  ‘I might as well just wear my mushroom!’

  They found a deep raspberry-pink velvet beret that Clarry thought was the most beautiful hat she’d ever seen. It fitted her perfectly.

  ‘Twelve shillings!’ said Clarry. ‘Is it worth twelve shillings?’

  ‘It’s ever so pretty. You could wear it with all sorts.’

  ‘All right,’ said Clarry recklessly, diving for her money. ‘I’m doing it! There!’

  Five minutes later it was hers, two weeks’ work in a black-and-white-striped bag.

  ‘Gosh, goodness, it doesn’t leave much,’ said Clarry, inspecting the change in her purse.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two shillings and some pennies. But I’ll get another six next week.’

  ‘Pennies?’

  ‘Shillings.’

  ‘Oh, well, then,’ said the girl, as if Clarry had announced she was coming into a fortune next week. ‘Let’s go and get a cake! What’s your name? I’m Vi. Violet.’

  ‘Like the ink!’

  ‘Like my nan,’ said Violet. ‘Forget the ink!’

  ‘All right. I’m Clarry. Can we afford cakes?’

  Violet gave her a quick glance then, but said good-temperedly, ‘I can if you can.’

  ‘I think I can,’ said Clarry, and so they bought jam tarts and some very odd lemonade in Clarry’s first tea shop ever. It came to eightpence each, plus a penny for the waitress, which Violet insisted on paying.

  ‘Have a pair of lace stockings!’ offered Clarry impulsively. ‘Go on, I’ll never need three!’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do!’ said Violet. ‘Same time next week?’

  ‘What? Shopping? I will if I can. I’ll probably have to scrub out the kitchen next Saturday, though.’

  Violet stared at her in such surprise that Clarry was alarmed and asked, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Scrubbing out the kitchen!’

  ‘I only didn’t do it today because Mrs Morgan didn’t come.’

  ‘I thought you were posh!’

  ‘Me? Posh?’

  ‘That hat! Twelve shillings! Twelve shillings! Twelve! All that ink! Giving away lace stockings!’

  ‘Oh,’ said Clarry, very startled to find that she had not appeared as sensible and economical as she thought. ‘Was that a lot for that hat?’

  ‘Just a bit!’

  ‘I’ve never been shopping before.’

  ‘I can tell.’

  ‘Thank you very, very much for closing up the shop!’

  ‘Oh, Lord, I forgot the shop!’ cried Violet, and turned and ran.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Peter’s Speech Day

  Clarry’s liver, complete with churchyard grass snippings and cough syrup, was a great success.

  ‘Very acceptable,’ said her father, after ungallantly letting Miss Vane try it first.

  ‘Delicious!’ agreed Miss Vane. ‘Well done, Clarry! Didn’t I tell you that cooking would save it from going off?’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ agreed Clarry cordially, content herself with baked potatoes and spring greens.

  ‘I can’t think why you won’t try it yourself.’

  ‘I’m vegetarian now,’ explained Clarry.

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since yesterday,’ said Clarry.

  She didn’t manage to meet Violet the next week, and the following Saturday things were somehow different from that first wild glorious shop. Violet became very bossy, saying things like ‘You can’t charge her that!’ to perfectly reasonable shop assistants, and ‘You can’t go in there!’ to Clarry.

  ‘Why can’t I go in there?’ asked Clarry.

  ‘You’ve only got twelve shillings.’

  ‘But look at that dress!’

  It was grey, striped with cream, and had a cream muslin bodice laced with grey.

  ‘It’s plain as plain. It’s a nothing of a dress! It’s been hanging in that window for weeks.’

  ‘Then they must want to sell it.’

  ‘I thought you’d want pink, like that hat.’

  ‘The hat’s enough pinkness for one person to wear at a time!’

  ‘And that dress is seventeen shillings!’ said Violet disapprovingly. ‘You said you’d only got twelve. I can’t lend you anything, you know!’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to!’ said Clarry indignantly. ‘Do you think they’ll let me try it on?’

  Violet shrugged.

  ‘Well, I’m going inside to look at it properly,’ said Clarry, and as soon as she stepped through the door she was pounced on, and urged into the dressing rooms, where it was discovered that the grey dress fitted her perfectly.

  ‘It’s been too long in the window, it’s faded down one side,’ observed Violet, who had followed C
larry into the shop after all.

  ‘Not very much,’ said Clarry, and then absolutely scandalized Violet by offering twelve shillings for it now, and another five in two weeks’ time, and meanwhile they could have her little silver watch, as proof that she’d come back.

  They must have wanted to sell it. Instead of chasing Clarry out of the door, as Violet half hoped they would, the manager came over, inspected the watch, and agreed. Then they wrapped the dress, took the twelve shillings, the watch, and Clarry’s name and address, and handed her the box.

  ‘You’ve got a nerve!’ said Violet when they finally emerged on to the street. ‘And you are posh, whatever you say! Where’d you get your money from? Your millionaire dad?’

  ‘I work after school and on Saturday mornings,’ replied Clarry, too happy with her dress to be offended by this. ‘I stay with three children till their mother gets home and teach them things for their homework.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Oh, anything they need. Maths and French and Latin.’

  ‘What was all that about scrubbing kitchens, then?’

  Clarry looked at Violet, and saw that somehow she had hurt her.

  ‘You can do Latin and scrub kitchens,’ she said.

  ‘Huh,’ said Violet.

  ‘You can borrow the pink hat whenever you like.’

  ‘How many love letters have you written with that ink?’

  ‘Two,’ said Clarry, ‘but they’re not love letters. I’m sorry about that person you wrote to in France.’

  ‘Oh, him.’

  ‘Miss Vane organizes a Red Cross group in St Christopher’s Church hall. Wednesday nights and Saturdays. Lots of girls knit socks and mittens and things. And they put little folded messages inside them before they send them off, to cheer up the soldiers. Often they get letters back.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And they have tea and do games at the end. And make jokes. Like pretending they know who they’re knitting for. They say, This is for Albert. Don’t tell his mum! and make up stories as if they know them.’

  ‘Do you go?’

  ‘Sometimes. I’m knitting a scarf. I’m a bit slow, though. They always need more people. Shall I call for you, next time I’m going?’