By the time I noticed how horribly cold it was, I was in the thick of tangled trees. High branches patterned the sky like brown lace. I trod carefully, suddenly mindful of the jagged mantraps set to catch Jews on the run in Poland. A few minutes further on I came to a clearing near a snowy mound of tumbled stones – a house of sorts. There were three walls standing, more or less, with half a roof balanced across and one glassless window. This had to be the haunted house the village kids talked about, the one hit by bombs, where Lettice Varley died. I suddenly became aware of how silent the woods were; a strange sadness drenched the whole clearing. Then sun broke through cloud and I remembered what Mama used to say about not being lost: I was exactly where I was on the surface of the planet.
I found myself humming the tune of “It’s a Lovely Day Tomorrow”. When we were together, it was always going to be a lovely day … tomorrow. Now, in the peace of this English winter, I realised it was a lovely day today.
Wood snapped.
I went absolutely still.
I heard the breathing next.
Slowly I turned my head towards the sound.
A collection of rags with bright eyes and a rosy nose was standing on the edge of the clearing. It held a bundle of twigs and small branches. The creature looked ready to run, and then we recognised each other. It was Nellie Varley. A dirty, flea-ridden gypsy, Angela had called her.
‘I am Brigitta.’
‘I’m Nellie. You stopped them kids throwing stones at me when I wus on me bike. You live at the big ’ouse …’ Nellie jerked her head in the general direction of Summerland.
‘For now.’
‘I wa’n’t nicking the bike, you know. That Joseph Summer, he dun’t need it now he’s a cripple, so I took it fair ’n’ square. Mi dad, he used ter work fer ’Er Ladyship. Then we got bombed and he hit the bottle ’n’ she give ’im the old heave-ho. That there –’ she nodded at the ruined shell – ‘that used ter be our ’ouse. Our mam were killed by a stray bomb.’
‘Where is your father now?’
‘Gone. He’ll be back soon, wi’ food and money. Where’s your dad?’
‘Gone.’
‘Is ’e coming back?’
‘No. Never.’
‘Huh. Are you a furriner?’
Furriner? Oh. Foreigner. ‘Yes.’
She eyed me more warily. ‘How furrin? Scotland?’
‘Austria.’
‘Nivver ’eard of it. Near Scotland?’
‘In Europe.’
‘Huh.’ She thought about that. ‘Where the Nazis are?’
‘Yes.’
‘They ’ang Nazis now, our dad says. Hang ’em by a rope till they twitch and their tongues come out like this.’ She stuck her head on one side and her tongue down to her chin.
I shuddered. In the final days of street fighting in Berlin they’d hanged men and boys who’d tried to lie low instead of defending Hitler in his bunker to the very last second. Strung them from lamp posts. Thanks to the war trials, it was now the Nazis who were dancing on air.
Nellie nodded her approval. ‘I’d ’ang ’em, me, if I ever met a Nazi. ’Ang ’em dead for bombing our mam.’
I looked at her pinched, pale face and had a thought. ‘Are you hungry, Nellie Varley?’
Hungry? She had a wolf in her stomach, I could tell. She also had a brother, two sisters and a dog. I invited them back to Summerland too, and took them all to the dining room. This was a long, gloomy space, watched over by portraits of equally miserable Summerland ancestors. I’d polished the enormous table. It could seat twenty people on the spindly chairs, even if they stuck their elbows out when they ate. At night the ghosts used it for ping-pong. For the Varleys I spread one end of the table with a red chequered cloth and matching crockery. Then I fetched out every bit of food in the scullery and set it before them. They didn’t waste time with cutlery.
Sophie Rover found me pouring tea into gold-edged cups and saucers. Nellie Varley smiled and waved, which wasn’t such a good idea when she had a mouthful of sandwich and a fistful of very crumbly cake. Unfortunately, Lady Summer and Vera Baggs also arrived home at the same time. They might not have realised I had guests if the Varley mutt hadn’t run into the hall to find a safe place to eat its bone.
‘A rabid dog! Get it away from me!’ shrieked Miss Baggs.
The Varleys were still giggling when Lady Summer appeared, framed in the doorway like a dramatic portrait of some vengeful goddess.
‘What is the meaning of this?’
For once Mrs Rover was speechless.
‘They came to tea,’ I said.
Every drop of blood drained from Lady Summer’s face.
‘You let Varleys sit on the Chippendale dining chairs? You served them food on my best Royal Doulton?’
I looked at the gold-rimmed plates and shrugged. Let her hang me from a lamp post. ‘You do not use them. You have no friends for tea. The children were hungry. There is enough here to share.’
‘Insolent girl!’
‘I am not!’ At least, I didn’t think I was. It wasn’t a good time to be looking up words in my dictionary.
Lady Summer went from smouldering to blazing. ‘Get out! Get out at once – all of you! Dirty little vermin!’
That did it for me. I took one of those fancy-pants plates, held it high and smashed it onto the dining-room floor. I loved how it made Lady Summer gasp.
‘Yes, I break it! I will break it all! You care more for things than people. You live in this big house with many rooms and these children are in a …’ I didn’t know the word in English – small, cold, broken …
‘Hovel,’ said Mrs Rover helpfully.
‘… and you powder your face and paint your nails, and your door is shut to those who need help.’
‘The misfortunes of others are not of my making,’ said Lady Summer, while Miss Baggs swept Varleys out of the dining room and into the entrance hall. ‘I fired Roman Varley from the estate because he was – and is – an irresponsible drunk.’
Nellie flared up. ‘That’s mi dad yer talkin’ about!’
Another little Varley piped up, ‘Our Nellie, Dad is a drunk – you’s always saying so.’
‘He’s my dad. I can say it. She can’t. At least ’e loves us, s’more than anyone does ’er.’
Lady Summer recoiled as if she’d been slapped. ‘I will not tolerate this any longer. This is my house, and …’
‘Actually,’ came a new, deeper voice, ‘it’s my house, as you so often remind me, telling me to be a man and face up to my responsibilities.’
Finally, visibly, Lord Summer had come out of hiding. We all turned to look at him as he stood on the great stairs. He wore the hideous purple dressing gown and pyjamas we’d bought in town. One of the sleeves was empty, tucked into a pocket. His hair was uncombed. It hung over the rumpled scar tissue of his face.
‘Joseph, dear, don’t let us disturb you. I’ll sort this little fracas out. Mrs Rover … where are you going?’
‘To the pub, to give that Rom Varley a good talking-to. He is a drunk and a derelict, as no father should be. Him and my husband are as bad as each other, boozing all their money away. Can I suggest Brigitta sees these kids safely home … with whatever leftovers the little mites need? Best you close your mouth, Miss Baggs, or something might fly in.’
And off she went – magnificent.
That wasn’t the end of it. More had broken than just a plate. The spell that had kept everyone at Summerland apart had somehow splintered too. Joe went into the study with his mother and they had a long, long talk, which resulted in plans to clear the chauffeur’s flat above the garage, for the Varleys to move into.
The next morning I found a pair of rabbits strung over the kitchen door handle. They were still warm.
For the furrin girl, said a note, in dark lead pencil.
After breakfast, someone took an axe to the ivy that was slowly strangling the orchard apple trees. Miraculously, the rusty garden gate got oiled hinges.
The chicken run had extra wire put round, against foxes. Tiles were straightened on the coal-shed roof and someone raked the gravel forecourt. There was even a ladder up to the clock tower. I caught glimpses of a dark man with a bag of tools and a wheelbarrow moving around the estate.
Mrs Rover marvelled. ‘Will wonders never cease? Rom Varley off the drink and working his old job again? There’s some deep magic at work there …’ She looked at me as if I’d lifted a curse. I didn’t see what the fuss was about. Anyone who’s ever needed help knows the magic of simple kindness.
Constable Ribble came by the kitchen for a cuppa, as it was called.
‘That Lady Summer, she must be off her rocker,’ he said. ‘Taking Varley back again.’
‘Don’t you believe in second chances?’ asked Mrs Rover.
‘I believe in these lemon tarts,’ he answered, helping himself to a second one. ‘Ruddy lovely they are.’
I smiled. At least someone appreciated them.
Ribble went on. ‘The Varleys have gypsy blood in ’em and no good comes of that. Mind you, they say Hitler murdered half the gypsies in Europe and he was definitely off his rocker, so maybe Lady Summer’s has got it right after all, giving the kiddies a home till they get proper sorted.’
Lady Summer was avoiding me. I had good reason to know she’d no history of hospitality, not even when dear friends needed it the most. If I ever forgot that, the faint ghost in the Blue Room reminded me each time she wafted past on the edge of after-dark awareness.
I took a plate of the tarts to Joe’s room, with a note that Sophie Rover helped me draft: Compliments of the chef. This time when I knocked he slid the bolt back and invited me in.
His room was dark. He went to huddle in an armchair, an island in a sea of books. One small lamp was lit. I sat opposite. We ate lemon-curd tarts.
‘My God,’ he said suddenly, ‘this reminds me how hungry I am. I haven’t felt like eating for ever. Since …’ He turned his face away.
‘Look at me,’ I said.
He wouldn’t.
‘Please?’
He couldn’t. I knew that need to hide.
Picking crumbs off the plate, he said, ‘We should be enemies, shouldn’t we? English and Austrians – opposite sides of the war. Did you know it was a family of Germans who took me in after the crash? They found me half-drowned, half-burnt and all tangled in parachute. They were munitions workers from the very kind of factory we’d have bombed if it had been our mission target. They slathered me with ointments for the burns. Paid for a doctor to come for this.’ With his one hand, he indicated where the other arm had been. ‘Held me down when I was delirious. Cleaned up when I spewed, and worse. Later, in the military hospital, it was German doctors who carried out the skin grafts. I wish they hadn’t bothered. I’m good for nothing now.’
‘You’re alive. You have a home. Family. And Vera Lynn.’
‘Vera Lynn? What’s she got to do with it?’ Now he did look up.
I shrugged and smiled. ‘You know – “It’s a Lovely Day Tomorrow”.’
Liver and Onions
I took a deep breath. ‘This is a bad idea.’
‘It’s a great idea,’ said Angela Goose. ‘Here, don’t you know how to tie a tie? Stand still, I’ll do it.’
‘I have never worn a tie before.’
‘Never worn a tie, never been to school. What have you done?’
As if I could tell her that.
We were behind a hedge, on the road heading out of Summer village towards town. I’d already layered up with my disguise – a blouse, a gymslip, gym knickers and a blazer, all in the most disgusting shade of dark cabbage green. Angela was adding the finishing touches. A wool hat with a badge, and a striped green and yellow tie.
She stepped back to examine her work.
‘Brilliant! You look just as awful as the rest of us now, though prettier than most, I’ll give you that. I couldn’t blag a spare satchel off anyone, so just stuff things in your blazer pocket or give them to me to carry.’
‘What things?’
‘Pens, books, homework … Oh. I suppose you don’t really have anything like that.’
I had nothing. Not even my knife. I was planning to spend the day as a normal English girl, and I guessed they weren’t usually armed. My own clothes would be wrapped in an old mackintosh and hidden in the hedge until school was over.
Yes, school.
Angela gave me one final, critical look-over. ‘You’re too smart. Loosen your tie, shove your socks down so they’re a bit wrinkled and, whatever you do, don’t wear your hat straight.’
Colin and Poppy Oakley were some way ahead on the road. As we walked we were joined by other cabbage-green pupils heading the same way. Mostly they ignored me. I was happy just to watch and listen and learn what normal girls were like. They giggled, they gossiped, they moaned about homework and mooned over boys, marking them out of ten on their looks. I thought about Joseph Summer. What would they mark him now?
A high brick wall surrounded the even higher brick school.
‘It looks like a prison,’ I said, wary.
‘It is,’ groaned Angela. ‘We’re sentenced to boredom till three thirty this afternoon.’
She didn’t look so bored. She talked non-stop and said hello to everyone.
‘Hey, who’s your friend?’ asked one of the boys. He pulled one of my braids. Without thinking I shoved him away, hard, and clenched my fists, ready to defend myself. No knife, but that was all right. I knew where to hit first to bring a boy down.
The other pupils smelled a scrap brewing. By some unconscious, savage choreography they gathered round and, at the same time, left a space like a boxing ring. Next thing, a chant started.
‘Fight fight fight fight …!’
‘Girls versus boys!’ whooped Angela. Fuel on a fire. How quickly people turn against each other.
The boy looked bewildered, tried to back away. ‘I were just being friendly …’
‘Is that the girl you told us about, the one who floored Colin Oakley?’ asked one of Angela’s friends.
A collective murmur rippled across the playground.
That’s her – knocked Colin Oakley unconscious – nearly killed him …
A black-gowned gargoyle appeared and blew a whistle.
The potential for violence seeped away. Teachers were in charge now.
We had to make two separate lines to go into the building, facing two doors with stone labels marked for girls and boys. The oldest kids, me and Angela included, were at the back of the lines, looking down at the younger ones in front. She said lots of her friends had left school at fourteen to work, but she was staying on for exams. I felt ancient compared to everyone else.
When the whistle blew once more we shuffled forward. I kept my head down. Once we’d gone through the girls’ entrance, everyone mingled together again. The older girls were noisy and sweaty and friendly and fun. I quickly figured out who was the leader in the group (Angela), who were the hangers-on, the odd girls in orbit and the solitary girls in their own private universe. We jostled along corridors to a classroom. Angela made sure I was in a seat near the back, behind a big lad with broad shoulders.
Bells rang. The first lesson was history. I was stupid. Knew nothing. Bells rang. A scrum in the corridor, a new classroom, and English. I was stupid. Knew nothing. More bells, more bashing and bruising, another room. Maths. Mostly stupid. I knew more than lots of the other kids though. Didn’t put my hand up. Bells. Break time.
It was chaos out in the yard. So much yelling, screaming, running, shrieking. Child-size monsters in green going wild. I loved it.
‘Aren’t you playing?’ Angela asked. ‘There’s two-ball, French skipping, rope skipping … It’s OK, even us older girls do it. Some of us barge in on the boys’ football. You’ve got to be tough, but it’s fun.’
Football looked strange. One skilful player had the ball and the other boys trailed after him. French skipping was strange too, but addic
tive. Two girls stood with a loop of elastic – a prized possession – around their ankles, making two taut strands. Another girl did twists and tricks with the elastic, creating patterns while they all chanted. The bell for lessons rang far too soon.
By dinnertime at noon I’d been labelled deaf, dumb and stupid by harassed teachers in black gowns who happened to pick me out to answer questions. One made me come to the front of the classroom and stand by the blackboard in a cloud of chalk as an example, because I couldn’t label the parts of a dissected apple correctly. Mama hadn’t thought to teach me that as we crossed Europe looking for a safe haven. Whenever we got apples we ate them, or traded them for a night’s shelter.
Few of the other kids on our table would eat the hot school dinner provided, which was liver and onions. The liver was like leather with bits of rubber piping in. I’d had worse. The onions looked like beige phlegm. Pudding was a square of fruit-dotted yellow sponge, with more yellow poured over it. I ate that too. Nowhere near as good as Sophie Rover’s.
‘Spotted Dick!’ giggled the other kids, picking out the sultanas and calling them squashed flies.
Afterwards I had a go at skipping. Two girls held a long rope, turning it in a great loop while everyone chanted songs. I liked the song called ‘Nancy Went to War’. According to the rhyme, while Nancy was at war she lost one arm (it went behind the back) then the other (ditto), then one leg – this meant hopping – then she lost both legs and dropped down dead. I thought Nancy was a good, resilient role model but ultimately unlucky.
‘Not bad,’ said Angela, when I had completed all the skipping challenges. ‘I’d like to see the boys try our games instead of laughing at them. All they do is kick a ball around and tear their trousers.’
Bells rang again.
Angela groaned. ‘French. Why didn’t I eat the liver at dinner and die from indigestion first?’
During the French lesson I daydreamed about running away to Paris to play at a conservatoire like Mama. Or running away to New York with Connie Snow to play in a Harlem jazz club. Or just running away anywhere, because I was sick of jamming my long legs under a wooden bench.
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