Luke Adams Boxset 1

by Dawson, H A

  ‘You do exactly as I say,’ the man said, his tone gruff, ‘and obey me immediately. I have made up a list of chores.’

  He gave her a sheet of paper. Her body was quivering, her eyes glued to the scrawl. She could not make sense of it; her brain refused to function.

  ‘Any deviations and you will be punished.’

  Grinning, he stepped to the other side of the room and returned with a whip, and then tapped it onto his other hand, emphasising its use. His lips were curling, his eyes dark and feral.

  ‘Go now. Get on with it.’

  He stepped away and muttered something to the woman.

  Janet gripped the paper. The sheet quivered, rustling between her twitchy fingers. All she could think of was her home: her family, her friends, and her school. She was told her time away would be fun, a holiday. Here, or so she had been told, she was going to be safe.

  Her eyes welled with tears and her stomach churned. She would rather be doing sums in an air raid shelter.

  Her stinging legs jolted her from her ponderings.

  Chapter 10

  1941-1945

  The beatings occurred daily, sometimes once, sometimes several times. It did not seem to matter if Janet did as she instructed or not, as either way her guardian, Uncle Tom as he liked to be called, took sadistic pleasure in using the whip. Once, when she was lying in bed, she heard the same whooshing sound come from his bedroom causing her to wonder if he was using it on his wife. Her screams convinced her that he was until Auntie Irene chuckled with delight.

  Janet buried herself in her chores, taking a comforting pleasure from her routine. Each day she made meals and cleaned the house, both before school and after, often doing the same chore twice to please Uncle Tom. She had no time for pleasure and no time for reading or looking through her English class work. It was an arduous existence and she fumbled through life in a daze.

  One day, Uncle Tom had returned home drunk. His loud behaviour did not concern her as her father had often acted the same way. However, when he caught her dropping an egg and he exploded with anger, her fear enveloped her. He whipped her legs until she cowered to the floor, her arms protecting her head, and her legs pressing against her chest. When he stopped, her frantic breaths and squeals became more forceful, but he was only taking a brief pause, and grabbed her by her matted hair and pulled her into an open space. Her shoes scraped the ground and the whipping continued.

  Her entire body was raw, and she convulsed uncontrollably as she groaned and whined. With no one to offer sympathy or a soothing hand, she lay there for hours until her pain eased and her courage grew. Uncle Tom was in her next room, slumped onto the sofa and sleeping. She crept to the door, headed outside into the cool damp air, and wandered aimlessly along the street. With weakened legs and a lack of hope, she dropped to the ground in a heap.

  Her mind was in turmoil. She relived the beatings, and every so often thought of her home and the postcard she sent to her family after she had arrived. Together they had devised a code. One kiss at the end meant she wanted to go home, and two kisses meant she was happy. She had attached one kiss, so where were they? Abandoned and forlorn, she slipped into a fitful sleep.

  The next few days were a blur. A kind and gentle police officer found Janet and took her to the station. Rather than contacting her parents’, he contacted the billeting officer who made the decision to rehome her in Norfolk. As the train eased into the station at the site of her destination, her anxieties grew; she fidgeted, she fiddled with the hem of her dress, she shuffled in her seat.

  Unlike before, she had no expectations of a joyful atmosphere and a holiday-type accommodation and decided she would do her work complaint free. Soon she would be able to return home and be away from her life of hardship. She held the prospect close to her heart.

  The train screeched to a standstill. She peered out of the window, searching for cruel-seeming folk, but saw no one that fit the description carved into her mind. Hesitantly, she stepped to the exit and then onto the platform to a woman standing alone, her smile broad and welcoming.

  The woman crouched down and reached out her hand. ‘Oh, you poor little mite. You must be tired and hungry. My name is Ann Coombs, you can call me Auntie Ann if that is okay with you.’

  Janet’s nod was imperceptible.

  ‘I hear you’ve had a bit of a hard time. No matter, it’s over now. We’ll soon get you cleaned up and fed and you’ll be as bright as a button.’ She stroked her cheek. ‘I can see a pretty little face somewhere in there, am I right?’

  Her lips curled.

  ‘Come on then, we’ll get you home.’

  Ann raised herself upright and led her out of the station.

  ‘Have you ever seen a chicken?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You’ll like them, they are sweet. We get fresh eggs every day. Would you like to name one?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘What do you want to call it?’

  She thought for a moment and then spoke in a squeak. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You have a think. I hope you are going to enjoy staying with us. We’re looking forward to having you with us.’

  Her eyes were bright, her heart lightening. She was going to enjoy herself, she could already tell.

  The car pulled into the drive on Fen Lane. Before her was a massive house, or perhaps several together, Janet could not be sure, and at the rear, beyond the barn and a row of towering trees, was a vast open space. Her jaw dropped.

  There was nothing there. How could that be? Where were the other houses? Fearful of the sparseness of her surroundings, she clamped her arms across her front as the slight breeze tickled her skin. It was an incomprehensible scene, too different to London life to process. She shut her eyes for a couple of seconds, and then ripped them open, expecting to see houses, people, and rubble. Even the air was different, purer somehow and without the hint of smoke and fumes.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Ann asked.

  Janet nodded eagerly and glanced to her kind eyes and soft skin. She was about her mother’s age, whatever that was, maybe a bit younger, but she was happier and didn’t carry a perpetual sullen look on her face.

  ‘We’ll get you settled in and then I’ll show you around.’

  ‘Can I see the chickens?’

  ‘Okay. Just drop your bag by the door and follow me.’

  The border alongside the path contained a huge array of plants, some of them with bright, broad flower heads, others with exquisite leaf structures. At the other side was a trimmed and maintained lawn, and in the middle was a small tree with drooping branches and lush green leaves. There was too much to see, too much to absorb, and her senses overloaded.

  They turned the corner. Some of the chickens were meandering along the edge of the field whilst others were resting in the midday sun. It was an unbelievable sight, quite extraordinary, and she could do nothing but gawp. After a word of encouragement from Ann, who had picked up one of the hens, she touched its feathers.

  The bird was much softer than she had expected, and far more so than anything else she had ever had contact with. Carefully, Ann prised apart its plumage and exposed a downy basecoat.

  ‘It keeps it warm in winter,’ she said.

  She was stunned. She had seen a picture at school, but it was quite different in real life. They were bigger than she imagined and had funnier faces too.

  ‘What are those wobbly bits under the chin?’

  ‘They are the wattles, and that on the top of the head is the comb. This one is Freda.’

  ‘How do you tell them apart?’

  ‘You learn. Look carefully. This one has more white in its feathers than the others. See?’

  She placed it onto the ground and Freda walked away, its head moving back and forth.

  ‘Hello,’ a man said.

  Startled, Janet looked up at the slender man wearing dungarees and a tweed jacket, and she shivered, her memories of Uncle Tom still fresh.

&
nbsp; ‘You must be Janet.’ He stepped towards her. ‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’m Gerry, Uncle Gerry if you please.’

  She reflected the twinkle in his eye with one of her own and nervously reached for his hand. He towered above her, yet his ruddy complexion and vivid blue eyes exhibited compassion, and her uncertainties dissolved.

  ‘We’d better get you settled in,’ Ann said, turning to Janet.

  After Ann and Gerry exchanged words, they turned back to the house.

  ‘Lizzie and Joe are at school, you’ll meet them later.’

  ‘Are they evacuees too?’

  ‘Yes sweetheart, they are. They’re sister and brother. You’ll be going to the same school next week.’

  They were lucky to be together. Where were her sister and brothers?

  She lifted her bag from the floor and followed Ann to the doorway.

  ‘Do you enjoy school?’

  ‘I don’t like maths but I love English.’

  ‘Do you enjoy reading?’

  She nodded. ‘I want to be an English teacher, but my father . . . never mind.’

  ‘I’ve got a surprise for you then.’

  Ann opened the door. They stepped into the vast lobby. It was clean with fancy wall lights, huge paintings, and a coat stand to one side. Janet felt like a princess walking into a palace and felt dirty and out-of-place alongside such splendour. Apprehensively, she looked to her feet, and feeling the sting of Uncle Tom’s whip upon her skin, she shuddered.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Ann asked.

  She bent down, removed her shoes, and nodded.

  ‘Follow me.’

  Ann entered a room. There was a piano at one side, a fireplace on another and a wall of books on a third. She stared like a gormless fool.

  ‘You’ll catch flies.’

  She shut her mouth.

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  ‘Of course, you can. This is your home now.’

  There were too many titles to absorb, and her eyes drifted.

  ‘This is a good book,’ Ann said retrieving one.

  It said ‘White Fang by Jack London’. She flicked open the pages, noticing the small text and heavily laden pages.

  ‘It looks a bit hard.’

  ‘How about I help you then?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Good, that’s settled. Now, we shall go upstairs, and we’ll get you unpacked. You’ll be sharing a room with Lizzie. I hope you don’t mind the company.’

  Janet followed Ann in a daze up to the first floor. It was beautiful, bewildering and breath-taking. It was also cleaner than anything she had ever witnessed.

  ‘Thank you,’ Janet said.

  Ann turned her head. ‘What for?’

  She lowered her head in embarrassment.

  If only her parents could see the vastness of the place, and the tidy rooms, the clean windowsills and skirting boards, the decorations and possessions. She should write to them and tell them all about it. She should ask them to visit.

  A lump lodged in her throat as she recalled the postcard and the deal they had made. They had agreed to collect her. They had promised.

  It was almost a year before Janet made a trip back to London, and as she sat on the train, feeling braver and wiser than the day of evacuation, she pondered the last months. Having got over the thrill of living on the farm, her separation from her family remained as a gnawing ache. There were times, however, when her longing for her family swelled, deep and harsh as tears dripped down her rosy cheeks. Desperate to share her pleasures and maintain a connection, she wrote with regularity, sharing news relating to the chickens, telling of the vegetables growing on the land, and describing her developing schoolwork.

  ‘Carrots come out of the land dirty,’ she had said, ‘and eggs come out of a hen warm, like a boiled egg.’ Her statements were endless and whilst she wrote weekly, she rarely received any acknowledgment with the replies coming monthly at best. Each one was short and said little more than acknowledging their existence. Her disappointment mounted.

  Did her parent’s understand how good life was and how kind Auntie Ann and Uncle Gerry were? Their lack of comments must be due to her poor writing and she assumed it lacked clarity; yet it was hard to believe, as she had spent hours and days at a desk cultivating her skills with Auntie Ann. She had assisted her with other subjects too, and Janet had developed a love of learning and spent her spare time looking into a book, factual or otherwise.

  The train made swift headway, and she gazed out of the window, watching the sprawling townhouses speed passed. In her heart, she preferred the luxury of the open country spaces and loved the immense variety of the greens of the low-growing weeds and grasses, the delicate pink-white petals of the spring blossom and the pureness of the air. In the city, the scene made her feel trapped and claustrophobic. It was colourless. It was dark. It was gloomy.

  Her heart pounded with excitement as the train eased into the familiar station. She peered through the window, searching the platform for her mother and father, and replayed forgotten memories: mealtimes, evenings by the wireless, singing in the air raid shelters. There was much catching up to do and so little time, her visit temporary.

  The platform was bustling with people embarking and disembarking, and she struggled to see beyond the throng, but then a gap appeared and she saw her mother. Her appearance was drab, her dress tattered, her hair unkempt. At first, Betty did not smile, but scrutinised Janet up and down, her eyes disbelieving.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’ Betty said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re so grown up, and look at how pretty you are.’

  Janet peered at her new dress and coat, and then her shoes. Auntie Ann insisted she looked nice; she had said she wanted her parents to know they were caring for her.

  ‘And look at your hair, it’s so long.’

  Betty reached across and squeezed Janet, a faint smell of sweat and dirt wafting towards her.

  ‘I’ve so much to tell you.’ Janet said striding out of the station. ‘Did you read my letters?’

  Betty nodded.

  Janet’s words flooded out like an opened dam, and she rambled non-stop, describing everything in detail, from the size of the house to the folks in the village. She had noted nothing of the distance they had walked or of the once familiar city life and was surprised how soon they reached home

  She stepped into the living area, greeted her father, and headed to a chair at the table. The room was poky, old-fashioned, and stained with smoke, and a ripple of unease rushed through her. It no longer felt like her home; she was the stranger and fought an overwhelming sense she didn’t belong. Even so, and more than anything, she wanted to be there. They were her parents. This was her home.

  Despite her discomfort, Janet continued to tell them about the farm.

  ‘We can have as many eggs as we wish,’ she said, ‘and during the summer we grow our own fruit and vegetables. There’s never a shortage of food. Even in the winter months we eat things we’ve stored.’

  Eric scowled. ‘It’s not like that here. Get used to it.’

  ‘I know, I-’

  ‘We get what we can, and we’re proud to make do. It’s all right for these country folk . . . don’t have a clue what’s it like for us Londoners.’

  ‘They have rationing too.’

  ‘It’s not the same.’

  His resentment was perturbing and her stomach churned. It may not be quite the same, but was that not the reason for the evacuation, for a safer and better life? The life she had been dealt had not been of her choosing, and in an instant, she drifted back to her brief time with Uncle Tom, the beatings causing a deepening ache.

  ‘I wouldn’t even be there if you’d have come for me. I thought we had an agreement.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The postcard . . . when I was first sent away. You said if I put on one kiss, you would come for me.’

  ‘You expect us to drop everything just because you’
re afraid of hard work.’

  She steadied her breathing and blinked away her tears. ‘I’m not afraid of hard work. He whipped me.’

  ‘If you had have done as you’re told, he wouldn’t have done it. I can see how much you’ve changed. You’re too big for your boots. You probably deserved it.’

  The chair scraped on the floor and she leaped to her feet. ‘I did not deserve it! I did not!’

  ‘Just calm down,’ Betty said, resting a hand upon her back, ‘your father didn’t mean it.’

  Janet was aware of the piercing glare her mother gave her father, but it did little to appease her turmoil. Uncle Gerry would never talk to her this way; his selflessness was incessant.

  Her battle with her anger continued as they ate, her father’s comments occasional and cutting. He was different, somehow, and so was the house, and she could not help but relate the differences to the flaws in their characters. They could do so much more with themselves if they tried - Auntie Ann had taught her that - and in the least, they could clean themselves up a little and generate a small sense of self-worth.

  ‘Auntie Ann has taught me how to sew and alter old clothes to make them look newer. She also knows how to remove all types of stains.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Eric asked.

  Shrinking, Janet glimpsed at her mother. ‘I thought I could show you.’

  ‘You and your bloody fancy ways . . . think you’re so much better than the rest of us.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I . . .’ her voice stopped.

  She knew she had not sounded convincing, and reprimanded herself for her behaviour, the truth burning. All she had wanted to do was offer her assistance and show them how they could get more by spending less. She hadn’t intended to be mean.

  Yet Betty and Eric were uninterested in any explanation, and her stomach grew ever more nauseous, fearing that life would never be the same again. Every comment appeared to widen the gap in their relationship, and she longed for a comforting hug. Repeatedly and silently, she said that she was still their daughter, her eyes drifting and plaintive.