Luke Adams Boxset 1

by Dawson, H A

  ‘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.

  ‘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 fo
rgotten 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.

  Eventually, seeking solitude, she headed up the stairs to her bedroom. The door to her parents’ room was ajar, and her eyes fell on a dresser at the far side. She stepped inside.

  Her letters were stacked in a pile. She flicked through them. Many were sealed.

  Her heart sank and her mouth dried.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Janet spun around. Her father was staring.

  ‘You’ve not read them.’

  ‘Get out!’

  She fled to her room, slammed the door shut and flattened herself onto her bed, the pain contorting her face. In her mind, she felt the comforting touch of Auntie Ann and listened to her soothing words. She longed for home, her real home, and it could not come soon enough.

  Janet’s disillusionment was so great that when she returned home, she stopped writing letters. Even so, every now and then, her longing would re-emerge, and her hand would hover over a sheet of blank paper. Sometimes she even wrote a few words, until she remembered the unopened letters. Despite the hurt, she often checked the postal delivery, hoping they might write to her. It proved futile.

  Ann and Gerry offered as much sympathy as they could muster, suggesting that the evacuation could have been as hard on her parents as it was on her. The separation must have been unbearable; the difficulty of seeing a child grow up away from their control was something they struggled to empathise with. To try to assist, they suggested Janet tried to be as understanding as possible and pleaded with her to continue to write. However, much to Ann’s dismay, she refused to do so.

  By the time the war had ended, she considered herself mature enough to deal with the situation better and decided to return to London. The long journey gave her plenty of time to ponder their reunion, and as the rhythmical beat of the train settled her mind, she rehearsed her speech.

  She would apologise for her lack of understanding of the situation, telling how she was wrong not to have appreciated the difficulties they had to face. She would respect the choices they had made. She would praise their war efforts and thank them for allowing her to move to safety. Then, they would make a new start.

  Janet turned along the street to her home, and her heart beat ever faster, her eyes drawn to the door a third of the way down. There was no movement, no sign that they were anticipating her arrival.

  The knock on the door was firm; it seemed appropriate. She held her breath, forced her quivers to subside.

  The handle turned. The door opened. A woman gawped.

  ‘I was expecting to see Eric and Betty Smith,’ she said.

  ‘They don’t live here.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘A few weeks ago.’

  ‘Did they say where they were going?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  Janet was dumbfounded. She spoke to neighbours and she visited friends. Everyone was equally as ignorant as she was.

  Chapter 11

  Steven’s sweet seductive aroma danced a
round the car, arousing emotions in Leanne long laid to rest. Her racing pulse and tingling skin - a strange and welcoming phenomenon - caused the air to flood with hormones and her mind to fill with primitive hopes and desires. The moment was not predictable; it was not something Leanne ever wanted after Phillip’s passing, let alone desired.

  The heavy feeling had remained with her for weeks, rarely lifting, rarely allowing her to see the world in anything other than darkness. She had felt sick, often carried a headache, and drifted through her days in a daze. Frequently, she thought back to his departure before the accident, searching for even the smallest of clue that could have warned her that her life was to change, but she found nothing. It made little sense. She had been happy, not weak and frail, not driven by despair. Why did everything have to change?

  Now, as she recounted in her mind her sense of overwhelming loss, she could tell that the wounds were healing, and so long as she did not suffer any undue stress, the scars would lessen too. Leanne felt safe with Steven, mentally as well as physically, and she knew she was in a good place. It was to be a moment for enjoyment.

  A warm and pleasant sensation enveloped her as she peeked at him and noted the relaxed way he held the steering wheel, his out-turned leg and foot and his lush strands of golden-brown hair framing the healthy glow in his cheeks. Days previous, this man had been a stranger. It was a bizarre turnaround.

  They weaved along the lane, through the silent streets, and to the other side of the village before turning into a large drive. An outside light illuminated the garden. There was a shaped shrub in the centre of the lawn and pruned plants in the borders. Along the drive were three other cars.

  Steven silenced the engine and turned towards her. ‘Ready?’

  She nodded, yet the strained conversation she had had with Teresa replayed and her doubts emerged. Nonetheless, she wasn’t going to voice her concerns and followed him to the house trying to remove the stiffness from her gait and the anxieties from her mind.

  She should be appreciating the opportunity given to her to acquire new friends. Tyler had managed it and had shown bravery by accepting a new challenge, and so she must do the same. Spurred on, Leanne stood by Steven’s side at the door with a newfound confidence. Within seconds of pressing the bell, it swung open. Teresa encouraged them inside, and then, making eye contact with Leanne, thanked them both for coming.