by Sandy Taylor
‘Thanks, but I prefer Annie.’
We all sat down on the grass and started to eat. Olive bit into the bread. ‘I wonder what my name means,’ she said.
‘My mother has a book all about names and their meanings. I can get it, if you like.’
‘Yes, please,’ said Olive. ‘I might be a goddess as well.’
Annie went back into the cottage and after a few minutes came out, carrying a book. She flicked through the pages. ‘Olive,’ she said, reading aloud. ‘From the Latin, meaning “symbol of peace”.’
‘Not as good as a goddess though, is it?’ said Olive, looking disappointed.
‘I think that’s lovely, Olive,’ I said.
She thumbed back a few pages. ‘Want to know the meaning of yours?’ she asked, smiling at me.
‘Okay.’
Annie turned another few pages. ‘Nell,’ she said. ‘Meaning “bright and shining light”.’
‘I prefer yours, Nell,’ said Olive.
‘Well, I think they’re both nice,’ said the girl.
The food was just what we needed and it would give us the strength to carry on walking.
‘Where are you going?’ said the girl.
‘We’re going home,’ said Olive. ‘To London.’
‘You won’t tell anyone you saw us, will you?’ I said.
‘Of course I won’t,’ said the girl. ‘I guess you’re evacuees then?’
I nodded.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.’
‘Do you know the woman who lives in the white cottage?’ I pointed across the fields. ‘A couple of miles over there.’
‘Clodagh Price?’
I nodded.
‘Everyone knows her. She’s been a bit odd ever since she lost her daughter.’
‘What did she die of?’ I asked.
‘Oh, she didn’t die,’ said Annie. ‘Her husband ran off with her and they were never seen again. It was in all the papers at the time. She never got over it, poor woman. Do you know her then?’
‘We stayed there last night.’
‘She locked us in the bedroom,’ said Olive.
‘Blimey, why’d she do that?’
‘We didn’t hang around to find out,’ I said.
Annie shook her head. ‘As me mum would say, there’s none so queer as folk.’
‘She was queer all right,’ said Olive. ‘Frightened the bloody life out of us, she did.’
Annie grinned at her. ‘Has anyone ever told you, you’ve got an old head on young shoulders?’
‘People tell me lots of things – I don’t take much notice of most of it.’
‘Good for you,’ said Annie, smiling.
It was so peaceful sitting on the grass in the sunshine with this sweet girl. I wished we could stay longer.
‘Could we take the cakes with us, instead of eating them now?’ I said.
‘Of course you can, and I’ll get you some more bread and cheese.’
‘Won’t your mum mind?’
‘I’ll tell her there was a starving beggar at the door. She’s big on the Good Samaritan story; she’ll help anyone, my mother.’
‘She sounds kind,’ said Olive, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. ‘I’ve got a kind mum an all.’
I put my arm around her shoulder. ‘We’ll see her soon,’ I said.
‘I miss her, Nell,’ she said, wiping her face on the sleeve of her cardigan.
‘I know you do, darling. So do I.’
Annie pointed to Olive’s doll. ‘Has she got a name?’
‘Her name’s Auntie Missus,’ said Olive. ‘My mum hasn’t met her yet.’
‘I bet she’ll love her.’
Olive smiled at her. I really liked this girl; she reminded me a bit of Angela.
‘Are we going in the right direction?’ I said.
‘Keep going the way you’re going and you’ll come to Cardiff. Keep away from the docks if you can, they’re getting bombed something awful.’
‘We will,’ I promised.
‘Pick some fruit and veg and I’ll get something to put them in. I’d like you to stay and meet my mum but grown-ups have a habit of doing the right thing. She might feel the need to dob you in.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s time we were on our way.’
Annie went back into the cottage and returned with a bag full of bread and cheese and a bottle of water. We added carrots and tomatoes, lettuces and the cakes.
She handed me a grey blanket. ‘I thought you could use this,’ she said.
‘You’re an angel,’ said Olive. ‘A proper angel.’
‘If my mum heard you say that she’d laugh fit to bust,’ she said, hugging Olive. ‘I hope you get home okay.’
‘We will,’ I said. ‘And thank you ever so much.’
‘You saved our arses,’ said Olive.
Annie put her arms around me and we hugged. ‘Keep safe,’ she said.
I kissed her cheek. ‘We will.’
We waved to Annie until she was just a speck in the distance.
‘I really liked her, Nell. Did you really like her?’
‘I thought she was lovely,’ I answered.
‘Just goes to show,’ said Olive, ‘not everyone what lives in cottages is barmy.’
‘It does, doesn’t it?’
* * *
For the next few days we walked, we ate and we slept, finding shelter wherever we could. In sheds, under bushes and once in a derelict house that still had running water, where we were able to refill the bottle. The nearer we got to Cardiff, the more we were made aware of the war. The sky in the distance was often bright red as if it was on fire, and we could hear the occasional muffled explosion. We were walking into a war zone but there was nothing we could do about it – it was the only way back to London.
‘Are you scared, Olive?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘Not really, Nell, cos it reminds me of home.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ I said, smiling at her.
We had eked out the food and the water and now we had to find more. Meeting Annie had given me hope that maybe there would be more people like her along the way.
The closer we got to Cardiff, the more anxious I got. The bombing raids seemed nearer and sometimes the air was thick and smoky and full of debris, just like Bermondsey. How awful to have come so far only to get killed. Mum would never know what had happened to us. As it was, we hadn’t been able to write to her since leaving the farm. There seemed to be so much to worry about that there were days when I wondered if we would ever get back home.
I’m not sure when I started to feel ill. At first it was just my legs – they felt heavy, I was dragging myself along. It was like walking through treacle. Then, even though it was warm and sunny, I started to shiver – even my teeth were rattling. ‘I don’t feel so good, Olive,’ I said, sitting down on the grass.
‘Is it the scarlet fever, Nell? Is that what you’ve got?’
‘I hope not,’ I said.
‘Do you want a drink of water?’
‘I think we should save it, there isn’t much left.’
‘Well, I think you should have a drink of water, Nell. You might not have the scarlet fever, but it could still be something deadly like…’
‘Like what?’ I said, looking up at her.
‘I dunno. Just somethin deadly. You know, somethin you die of, a deadly sort of thing.’
‘Thanks for that, Olive.’
‘You’re very welcome, Nell.’
My head started to pound; it felt as if someone was hammering inside my skull. ‘Can you run up ahead, Olive, and see if there’s somewhere I could rest for a bit,’ I said.
‘I’ll leave Auntie Missus here, she’s not feeling very well either – I think she must have caught it from you.’
Olive laid the blanket down on the grass. ‘Lie down on that, Nell.’
I took the doll from her and lay down on the blanket. The shivering had stopped and now I felt as if every bit of m
e was on fire. I tugged at my clothes, I wanted to rip them off. I pulled myself up and looked across the fields to see if Olive was coming back but everything was fuzzy. I lay down again. I had never felt so ill in my life; I felt as though I was floating. It was a nice feeling, kind of peaceful. I closed my eyes and gave into it. That was the last thing I remembered.
Chapter Twenty-Four
There’s a halfway place between being awake and being asleep and I kept finding myself drifting through this place.
One moment I was lying in the field with the grass so close to my face and the sky above me, and the world felt as if it was tilting and I was going to fall off and spin out into the universe. And the next I was awake; at least, I thought I was awake. When I opened my eyes I was back home, in my own bed, in the flat. The light coming through the window was very bright, so bright it hurt my eyes, and I could hear Mum humming and the rattling of pots and pans that meant she was making supper, and I felt so happy. I’d never left home. Me and Olive hadn’t ended up at the farm and I’d never killed anyone; it had all been a dream. But then the humming and the rattling drew away from me and the brightness faded and I felt as if I was falling again, falling back into sleep.
Next time I thought I was awake, I felt very warm and comfortable but when I opened my eyes I was in an unfamiliar room, or was it a room I recognised? I didn’t know and I thought perhaps I was back in the cottage with mad Clodagh, and I cried out and someone’s hand was on my forehead. I thought it must be Mum, only it was a rough hand, like a man’s hand, and I started to fall again, sliding sweetly downhill into the darkness.
Once I woke and I saw Olive. I saw her clearly, kneeling on a seat underneath a window. Her chin was in her hands, her elbows on the window ledge, and she was looking out the window and laughing to herself. I thought: Oh, that’s all right then, we’re safe, and that time I slipped back down into unconsciousness feeling as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I remembered a flannel on my face, the smell of coal tar soap, a towel on my arms and voices: Olive’s chattering and a lower, gruffer voice, a man’s voice. I felt a weight on the bed, by my legs, something warm pressed up against me.
The next time I opened my eyes it was light. I could see bright sunshine filtering into the room through a gap in the curtains. Under the window was a seat, so I hadn’t imagined it. I looked around the room and winced; my head felt too heavy for my body. The room was unfamiliar to me but I was relieved to see that it wasn’t Clodagh Price’s cottage.
I closed my eyes again. I had never felt so tired in my life. I was happy just to stay like this, warm and safe. I didn’t much care whose house I was in, I didn’t much care about anything – it was the strangest feeling.
I must have slept again and the next time I opened my eyes I saw Olive. She was on the window seat again. Her legs were spread out in front of her, with Auntie Missus lying on her lap.
‘Olive,’ I croaked.
She spun round, jumped down from the seat and came across to the bed.
‘You woke up?’ she said, smiling.
I nodded.
‘I’ll get the mister,’ she added, running out of the room.
She came back almost at once, followed by an old man.
‘So you’ve come back to us,’ he said, smiling down at me.
‘I think so,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said.
‘How did I get here?’
‘The mister carried you, Nell, and I helped him.’
‘I was walking Henri—’ began the man.
‘That’s his dog, Nell, and he’s really friendly and he likes me,’ interrupted Olive.
‘—when I saw this young lady running towards me. You gave her quite a fright, you know. She was yelling something about her sister having the scarlet fever.’
Olive’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I thought you was a goner, Nell.’
I reached for her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Olive.’ My eyes felt heavy again and I rubbed at them, trying to keep them open. ‘I’m so tired,’ I said.
‘Sleep is what you need right now,’ said the man gently. ‘You sleep as much as you can.’
‘But she’s been asleep for bloody years!’ Olive protested.
I closed my eyes and smiled: Olive was swearing again.
* * *
One morning I woke and decided that I wanted to get up. I swung my legs out of the bed but, as soon as I tried to put some weight on them, I collapsed in a heap on the floor. The noise brought Olive and the old man running up the stairs. Between them they helped me back onto the bed.
‘My legs feel wobbly,’ I said.
‘I should think they do,’ said the old man. ‘You haven’t used them for a long time.’
‘How long?’
‘Bloody years, Nell!’
I looked at the man. ‘I haven’t been asleep for years, have I?’
‘No,’ he said, smiling. ‘I think perhaps your little sister likes to exaggerate.’
‘Well, it seems like bloody years,’ said Olive. ‘I thought you were never gonna wake up.’
‘Almost three weeks,’ said the man.
I couldn’t believe it. ‘I’ve been asleep for three weeks?’ I said.
The man nodded. ‘Quite the little sleeping beauty.’
‘What’s been wrong with me then?’
‘In my very humble opinion I’d say you were exhausted, both physically and, I’m afraid, mentally.’
‘You’d had enough,’ said Olive, very seriously.
‘Thank you for taking care of me, mister.’
‘I’m glad I could help,’ he said. ‘And my name is Yann, Yann Kovak.’
‘Yann?’ I said.
‘It means “God is gracious”,’ he said.
‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said Olive. ‘We’ve had one hell of a time and we haven’t come across much graciousness from God or any other bugger.’
‘But he guided us here, Olive,’ I said gently.
‘I suppose he did,’ she agreed reluctantly.
‘So what would you like to call me?’
‘We’ll call you Yann,’ said Olive, smiling at him.
‘I’m not sure we should, Olive.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I happen to quite like the name.’
I could tell by the way he spoke that he wasn’t English and he definitely wasn’t Welsh.
‘I’m Polish,’ he said, as if he knew what I had been thinking.
‘Our neighbour, Mr Gavlick in Rannly Court, is Polish,’ I said.
‘He hasn’t got a dog, though,’ said Olive.
‘So, you feel strong enough to get up, do you?’
‘I thought I did.’
‘How about if I put a chair by the window so that you can see outside? Would you like that?’
‘Yes, I would,’ I said, smiling.
Yann pulled a chair across the room and helped me out of bed. This time I leaned on him as he lowered me into the chair.
‘Now, Olive,’ he said. ‘Shall we make some good soup for your sister, to make her strong again?’
‘Okay,’ said Olive. ‘And try not to go to sleep again, Nell.’
Yann winked at me. ‘You sleep as much as you like,’ he whispered, placing a rug over my knees.
Just as Olive was about to go out of the room she turned back to me and said: ‘Am I still six, Nell?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re seven.’
‘When did that happen?’
‘At the farm.’
‘I thought I felt bigger,’ she said, running down the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-Five
As the days and weeks went by I began to feel stronger – at least, my body did – but I still felt oddly detached from everything. I watched Olive playing in the garden with Henri and I ate a little of the food that Yann prepared for me. I felt at peace living here but I had lost something; I had lost something of the girl I used to be. I barely thought about all that had happened – if it crept i
nto my mind, I pushed it away. I had even stopped wanting to return to London. The thought of taking to the road again and having to look for food and shelter made my head hurt, so I pushed it to the back of my mind. I knew that the time would come when we would have to leave, as we couldn’t stay here forever; we couldn’t expect Yann to continue to feed us and put us up in his house. But for now we would stay where we were. I couldn’t think beyond today.
Yann asked no questions and I was relieved because I wasn’t ready to give him any answers. This gentle man just accepted that me and Olive needed him and so he looked after us as if we were his own.
In the evenings he read to us, lovely stories that I’d never even heard of. My favourite was Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. Somehow it touched something inside me; maybe it was the wild and lonely moors, which reminded me of Jimmy. It was a love story but it wasn’t slushy, not like the ones that Mrs Llewellyn and Auntie Beth liked to read. I would sit in a comfy chair beside the fire, close my eyes and listen to Yann’s soft voice. Often I would feel tears running down my cheeks. I cried a lot these days over the silliest of things, like watching Olive curled up with the dog, or the smell of roses, or the soft morning mist that hovered like a cloud over the hillside. No one said anything, they just let me cry.
One morning I asked Yann for some paper and a pencil. I sat at an old wooden desk by the window, and a beam of sunshine fell onto the page as I wrote. Even this small task of putting pencil to paper was almost too much for me, but I let Mum know where we were and that we were safe, and I told her how much we both missed and loved her. Yann and Olive walked into the village to post it.
As I sat in the little garden on my own I wondered again why Jimmy hadn’t met us in the barn. I’d grown so very fond of him while living in that horrible place and I knew that he felt the same about me. I’d only been fourteen but sometimes when I looked at him I’d felt something inside that I had never felt before. I’d trusted him and I’d known that he would never do anything to hurt me.
In Bermondsey, sex was talked about all the time. The women would stand in huddles in the square, their arms folded, their laughter loud and raucous, echoing around the tenements. While babies and toddlers played at their feet, they discussed in vivid detail what their old men had got up to the night before. They never said that they were carrying a child, they would say they were ‘up the spout again’ and someone would reply, ‘You should tell him to tie a knot in it.’ Boys would shout rude things as the girls walked by and the girls would simper and make eyes at them. Sex in Bermondsey was a crude thing, a thing to be laughed at, a thing to be whispered about and giggled over. That wasn’t how I felt about Jimmy. What I felt was gentle and precious, the beginning of something that I didn’t really understand, something that lay soft as a feather inside my heart, the promise of something in the future that I would dream about in bed at night.