The Runaway Children

by Sandy Taylor

  You could see that Mrs Jones didn’t know what to say, she was going red in the face and tugging at the collar of her coat. She spoke slowly and deliberately, as if we were all deaf. ‘If there was somewhere closer, vicar, I would have put them somewhere closer.’

  Olive was glaring at the welfare lady and I was worried about what was going to come out of her mouth. I kicked her under the table. She scowled but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Still,’ said Auntie Beth, smiling at Olive. ‘A farm, eh? That’s exciting. I bet there will be cows and pigs and chickens, maybe even a horse – you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’ve got a horse here,’ said Olive quietly. ‘And I don’t like cows.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you will have to get used to them, dear,’ said Mrs Jones, getting up from the table. She dropped her handbag in her haste to get out of the door. ‘I shall collect them the day after tomorrow and take them to the farm.’

  ‘And does this farm have a name?’ said Uncle Dylan, looking cross.

  ‘Hackers,’ she said, bending down and picking up her bag. She started to walk towards the door, then turned around. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’m not happy about them going there either and as soon as a place becomes available in the village, I will do my best to move them back here. I get no pleasure from delivering news like this, you know. I have hundreds of children that I have placed with families and I am under no illusion that they have all been as lucky as these girls. Some have made their way back home.’

  ‘I wish someone in Glengaryth would,’ said Olive.

  Uncle Dylan got up and put his arm around Mrs Jones. ‘You are doing a marvellous job,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Jones, sniffing.

  Once she had gone we all sat there feeling miserable.

  ‘What about Aggie?’ asked Olive, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Come here,’ said Auntie Beth, and she sat Olive on her lap and kissed the top of her head.

  ‘We will just have to be brave soldiers and trust that God will take care of you in your new home,’ said Uncle Dylan.

  ‘I won’t hold me breath,’ said Olive.

  * * *

  It was a Saturday so me and Olive walked down to the village. I dropped Olive off at the sweetshop so that she could say goodbye to Aggie. ‘Don’t forget to get Aggie’s address in Coventry,’ I said.

  ‘I won’t.’

  I met Lottie at the duck pond. We sat on the wooden bench looking out over the water.

  ‘This is bloody awful news,’ said Lottie, when I told her we had to leave the village.

  ‘I know, but at least you’ll still have Gerraint and the boys.’

  ‘But I won’t have you, Nell.’

  ‘I don’t know what this Hackers farm is going to be like. What if they don’t like us? What if we don’t like them?’

  ‘We’ll write to each other, Nell, and you can tell me all about it, but I’m sure it will be fine. How could they not like you? You’re utterly marvellous.’

  I smiled. ‘You’re pretty marvellous yourself, Lottie Lovejoy, and I’m going to miss you something rotten.’

  ‘I’m seriously thinking of writing to my parents and telling them to come and collect me. Eliza bloody Strut has redoubled her visits to the church. I don’t know why she doesn’t just bloody well move in! Honestly, Nell, if I stay there much longer I shall fade away and die an agonising death and end up being eaten by dogs.’

  ‘What dogs?’

  ‘Just go with this, Nell, I’m on a roll.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Even when she does deign to cook it’s practically inedible,’ she continued. ‘Every Friday she insists on cooking fish and I’m not exaggerating, Nell, when I say that it tastes as if it’s been left over from the Last Supper.’

  ‘You really should tell the welfare lady, Lottie.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She said that I was lucky to be living with such a good Christian woman who has a love of God and all his teachings. Pity she doesn’t have the same love for children. If God moved in with her, I’m pretty convinced that he’d starve to death as well. I think she just wants the people in the village to tell her she’s a bloody saint or something. Either that or she fancies the vicar.’

  I grinned. ‘The vicar at her church is ninety if he’s a day.’

  ‘So’s Eliza bloody Strut.’

  I slipped my arm through hers. ‘What am I going to do without you?’

  Lottie sighed. ‘Perhaps we should just run away and beg to be taken in by someone else. Preferably someone who can cook.’

  ‘I’ll write to you,’ I promised. ‘We’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘Of course we will,’ said Lottie. ‘And one day when this bloody war is over we will stand at the water’s edge and I shall show you the sea.’

  * * *

  Me and Olive sat in silence in the back of the car, watching Glengaryth slowly disappearing behind us. We drove past the school where we had been so happy. The duck pond where Lottie and I sat and chatted and the café where we had sat with our friends. As we passed the sweetshop I heard Olive whisper, ‘Bye bye, Aggie.’ She held Auntie Missus, her doll, against the window so that she could say goodbye too.

  This all seemed so unfair – Lottie had been right when she’d said that no one listened to children. It was as though we didn’t have a voice. We were being made to go somewhere that we didn’t want to go and to leave people we cared about, and there was nothing we could do about it. I knew there was a war on and we must all do our bit and make sacrifices, but we’d already left our home and our family; why did we have to do it again?

  Breakfast had been a sad little affair. Every time I looked at Auntie Beth and Uncle Dylan I felt like crying, but I was trying to be strong for Olive. Auntie Beth’s eyes were red, as if she’d been crying all night. None of us could eat anything, not even Olive.

  Uncle Dylan was trying to cheer us all up. ‘You’ll upset the chickens if you don’t eat their lovely brown eggs,’ he said.

  ‘And we don’t want to upset the chickens, do we?’ said Auntie Beth, trying to smile but failing miserably.

  Olive had slid from her chair and stood next to Auntie Beth, who lifted her onto her lap. Auntie Beth wrapped her arms around her and Olive buried her face in her neck and started sobbing. This was awful – I almost wished that Mrs bloody Jones would arrive and put an end to it.

  We’d stood in the porch waiting for the car to arrive, our bundles on the floor beside us. Leaving the vicarage had been almost as bad as leaving Bermondsey. We had loved it here. Auntie Beth and Uncle Dylan had become like family to us and we would never forget them or the kindness and love that they had shown two little strangers, who they had treated like their own.

  The journey seemed endless and, to add to our misery, it was pouring with rain and blowing a gale. It reminded me of one of Mrs Baxter’s sayings: ‘Wrap up warm, girls, there’s a wind out there that would take yer nose off.’

  Mrs Jones was yapping on about how lucky we were to be going to live on a farm and how she was sure that we would love it there.

  ‘Have you seen it?’ I said.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Mrs Jones.

  Well, either you’ve seen it or you haven’t, I thought.

  ‘How do ya know we’re gonna love it then?’ said Olive. ‘You have to see somethin before you decide whether someone’s gonna love it or not.’

  Good old Olive, I thought, smiling to myself.

  Mrs Jones turned around and attempted to smile at us. The car almost veered off the road and you could see her panicking as she tried to right it. Me and Olive didn’t bother smiling back. We were both miserable and we weren’t about to pretend that we weren’t.

  We passed lots of pretty villages that looked nice, but she kept on driving. On and on we went until we had left all the houses behind us and there was nothing but endless fields, all brown and muddy and chopped
-up, and barns that looked as if they were falling down. It was nothing like the green fields around Glengaryth. We were driving into the back of beyond, or as my daddy was fond of saying, ‘The arse end of the Piccadilly line.’ I hadn’t known what he meant at the time but now I did: we were indeed heading for the arse end of the Piccadilly line.

  We eventually turned off the road and drove for what seemed like miles along a bumpy dirt track full of holes and muddy puddles that sprayed against the windows as we were thrown around the back of the car like a couple of parcels. I had a bad feeling about this. I hoped that I was wrong; perhaps we would be greeted at the door by a rosy-cheeked farmer’s wife holding a plate of freshly baked Welsh cakes.

  After what seemed like forever, we stopped at an open gate. There was a sign hanging by one nail that said: HACKERS FARM. We had to lean sideways to read it.

  We drove through the gate and into a yard.

  ‘This is it, girls,’ said Mrs Jones, sounding relieved.

  She got out of the car and nearly slipped over. I jumped out and caught hold of her arm.

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said.

  Olive joined me and we looked in dismay at the scene in front of us. We were standing in what can only be described as a river of mud. We were wearing our school shoes and white socks. We looked for a dry path that would take us to the front door but there wasn’t one – the only way was through the mud. The house itself was awful – it looked more like a shed than a home. Dirty bits of net hung at the windows. Paint was peeling off the door and everything was splattered in mud. Olive was hanging onto my coat.

  ‘You can’t leave us here,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve got no option,’ said Mrs Jones, barely able to look us in the eye.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ whispered Olive.

  I felt angry. ‘That’s because there is nothing to like, Olive,’ I said. ‘There must be somewhere better than this, there has to be.’

  ‘Well, there’s not,’ Mrs Jones snapped. ‘Perhaps if you had been willing to be separated we might have found somewhere in the village.’

  ‘Well, maybe that would be better than this.’

  ‘No,’ said Olive, ‘we have got to stay together.’

  ‘But if being separated means we could go back to Glengaryth…’

  ‘If you think that I’m driving you all the way back to Glengaryth, you can think again. I’m going to visit my sister, who lives in the opposite direction. I’m exhausted and fed up with everyone blaming me when they don’t get what they want. Mrs Hacker and her son are expecting you. They have already been reimbursed and that, I’m afraid, is that. You have been given aspirations above your station living in that vicarage and, in case you’ve forgotten, there’s a war on. Now stop whining and follow me.’

  We trudged behind her through the mud, which covered our shoes and our white socks and splattered up our legs. Mrs Jones nearly fell over a couple of times but I didn’t go to help her again. She couldn’t wait to dump us in this godforsaken place and drive to her sister’s – no doubt mud-free – house. In that moment I almost hated her and wished that she would fall arse over tit and stay there all night.

  Having almost killed ourselves getting there, Mrs Jones banged on the door, but there was no response. Good, perhaps they had moved out or drowned in the mud and been eaten by Lottie’s imaginary dogs, and we could get away from this awful place. No such luck: the door opened a couple of inches and a wizened face peered out at us.

  ‘What?’ it said.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Hacker,’ said Mrs Jones, smiling. ‘I’ve brought the girls who you so kindly agreed to take in.’

  ‘Did I?’ the face croaked.

  ‘Yes, you did, Mrs Hacker.’

  Mrs Jones fished around in her now mud-spattered handbag and took out a piece of paper, which she shoved through the slit in the door.

  There was silence as the woman read the piece of paper. It didn’t seem to be bothering her that it was pouring with rain and we were getting more soaked by the minute.

  ‘You better come in then,’ she said reluctantly, opening the door wider.

  We stepped inside. If at all possible, the inside was worse than the outside. The poky little room was dark and cold. The windows were tiny, hardly letting in any light. There was a meagre fire burning in the grate and on either side were a couple of threadbare chairs. A long table took up most of the space and something that smelled like a dead dog was cooking in a large pot over the stove. The woman herself was rough-looking; she had long lank hair that looked as if it had never been washed. Over her clothes she was wearing a dirty apron. She reminded me of the witch in the fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel. My vision of a rosy-cheeked farmer’s wife disappeared out of the door and into the river of mud.

  Mrs Jones looked uncomfortable and I hoped that she’d at last realised that she couldn’t possibly abandon us here. I couldn’t believe it when she smiled at us and said, ‘Now be good, girls, and behave yourselves. I’m sure you will have a lovely time here.’ Without another word she turned around, opened the door and was gone.

  The woman stared at us. ‘I’m Mrs Hacker,’ she said. ‘I’ll get Jimmy to show you where to put your stuff. Jimmy?’ she yelled.

  A young boy came into the room. He looked a bit older than me.

  ‘Show these two their room,’ she barked.

  The boy opened a door beside the fireplace. Behind the door was a staircase and he nodded to us to follow him. Clutching our parcels, we climbed up the narrow stairs after him. At the top, he opened another door.

  ‘You’re in here,’ he said.

  We walked into the room. It was freezing cold and it smelled horrible. There was a single bed pushed against the wall. I thought about our big bed at the vicarage with its lovely soft blue-and-yellow quilt and I could feel my eyes filling with tears.

  ‘It’s not much, is it?’ said the boy.

  ‘Did something die in here?’ I said, putting my hand over my nose.

  ‘No, just a lot of bed-wetting from the last lot of evacuees. I’d open the window but it’s cold enough already in here.’

  I didn’t answer him. ‘Are you her son?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he shot back, as if I’d insulted him. ‘I’m an evacuee like you.’

  Olive was hiding behind me. I knew that she was as frightened as I was in this strange place.

  ‘What’s she like?’ I asked.

  ‘A miserable old cow,’ he replied.

  ‘She won’t hurt Olive, will she? Because if I thought for one minute that she would, I’d walk out right now.’

  ‘I’ve never seen her hit anyone and the last lot were a nightmare – she just moans a lot and she’s a lousy cook.’

  The boy was about to go out of the door when he turned and said, ‘Have you got anything of value on you?’

  I put my hand inside my coat and fingered the locket. ‘What’s it to you?’ I snapped.

  ‘You better give it to me,’ said the boy.

  ‘I’m not giving you anything,’ I said, glaring at him.

  ‘If you don’t give it to me she’ll take it and you’ll never see it again. You don’t know me from Adam but you’re going to have to trust me. I’ll hide it for you and keep it safe.’

  I looked at the boy and something about him told me that he was telling the truth. He seemed gentle and he had nice eyes. I reached behind my neck and undid the locket but still I didn’t hand it over.

  ‘I promise that I will take care of it for you,’ he said.

  I handed it over and he slipped it in his pocket.

  ‘What about that?’ he said, pointing to the glass brooch I had pinned to my coat.

  ‘It’s glass,’ I said. ‘It’s not valuable.’

  ‘Old Ma Hacker is like a magpie, she likes sparkly things.’

  I unpinned it and handed it over. I still wasn’t sure that I could trust him; I’d only just met him. But it seemed I hadn’t got much choice.

  ‘What are your na
mes?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m Nell and this is my sister, Olive. Patterson,’ I added.

  ‘Jimmy Morris,’ he said. ‘Just do as you’re told and you’ll be okay. Don’t worry, I’ll look out for you and I promise I’ll keep your stuff safe.’

  That’s when I smiled. We might have landed at the arse end of the Piccadilly line but we had an ally and for now that was the best we could hope for. Anyway, with a bit of luck we would soon be moving back to Glengaryth. We were just going to have to make the best of it. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.

  At least that’s what I thought until I met Albert.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Albert was Mrs Hacker’s son and she treated him as though the sun shone out of his rear end. Her eyes lit up whenever he walked into the room. I hated him on sight; I knew the type. I was an East End girl and I had learned early on which men you could trust and which you couldn’t, and I didn’t trust Albert Hacker as far as I could throw him. My job from then on was to make sure Olive was never left alone with him.

  The first morning we came downstairs we both learned what would be expected of us while we lived under Mrs Hacker’s rotten roof.

  We sat down at the long table. She plonked two plates in front of us that each held a greasy fried egg and a piece of bread. The bread was hard and the egg was a congealed mess.

  This feast was accompanied by a mug of black tea that had neither milk nor sugar in it.

  ‘I hope you’ve brought your ration books,’ she barked.

  I handed them to her.

  ‘Because I can’t be expected to feed you on nothing.’

  I remembered that Mrs Jones had said that she had been reimbursed for taking us in, so I knew she was lying.

  Jimmy came into the kitchen and sat down with us. He smiled and I smiled back.

  ‘This is a farm,’ said Mrs Hacker, slamming down an equally gross egg in front of Jimmy. ‘So we all have to pitch in. Jimmy sees to the animals – you can help him, he’ll show you what to do. If you don’t work, you don’t eat. That’s the way it works round here.’