by M J Lee
The smell of roast meat stung his nostrils. Jack was carrying the plate of roast lamb up to the nuns’ table, the sweet aroma of the meat lingering over the children’s heads as it passed by.
‘Shall I be mother?’ Sister Tomasina began to carve.
The roast potatoes and carrots were passed around the top table, followed by a bowl of fresh green peas with a knob of rich yellow butter on top, just starting to melt.
‘What are you looking at?’ screamed Sister Mary at the congregation of children beneath her. ‘Attend to your food, and be grateful for what you have.’
The children, thirty-seven in all, immediately returned their attention to the grey mass on their plates. The only sound was the scrape of metal against metal as the spoons mechanically shovelled food into small waiting mouths.
No conversation was allowed. Eating was to be silent and quick. A last supper before the final reading of a Bible and then bed.
Harry finished most of his food. Or, at least, as much as his excitement allowed him.
Just before they were ordered to take their plates to be emptied into the slops bucket, Jack walked in, carrying the large Victoria sponge up to the nuns’ table with all the reverence of an altar boy holding the communion wafers.
Harry said a silent prayer to Saint Nicholas, hoping the nuns wouldn’t eat too much of it. Sister Morris had told them the story yesterday. How, during a terrible famine, a malicious butcher had lured three little children into his house, where he killed them, placing their remains in a barrel to cure and planning to sell them off as ham. But the children were rescued by Saint Nicholas and the butcher was punished. Nicholas was a holy man who granted all the wishes of little boys.
The Mother Superior looked at the cake. ‘I think we should save this for tomorrow, Sisters. I am so full after the lamb.’
The Saint had heard his prayers. Harry could see Sister Tomasina licking her lips, desperate to eat a slice. But she wouldn’t contradict the Reverend Mother, not in front of the others, anyway.
‘Take it back to the larder.’ The old woman waved her hand and Jack turned to carry the cake back into the kitchen, winking at Harry as he passed.
After dinner, Harry washed and changed for bed. He wasn’t one of the bed-wetters, so he didn’t have to sleep near the window. Sister Tomasina came in at exactly 7.45 p.m. and turned out the light.
Harry was already falling asleep when he felt a nudge on his shoulder. ‘You ready?’
Jack was standing beside his bed holding a box of matches.
‘Where’d you get those?’
‘The kitchen. Sister Mary wasn’t looking. I also took this.’ He held up a silver key.
Harry hesitated for a moment. Should he go? If they were caught, it would be a certain visit to the Mother Superior’s room for punishment.
But the thought of the Victoria sponge, with its fresh cream and raspberry jam, chased away his fears. He threw back the covers and quickly pulled on his shirt and shorts.
‘Where you going?’ It was Little Tom, one of the new arrivals. He was quite a lot older than Harry but much smaller. Something, or somebody, had stunted his growth.
‘Nowhere,’ answered Jack.
‘I wanna come too.’
‘You can’t.’
‘I wanna come too,’ he repeated, more forcefully this time.
‘Shush, you’ll wake the others.’
‘You’re going to the kitchen, aren’t you, Harry?’
‘Shhhhhh...’ Harry felt a hand touch his arm.
‘I’m coming...’
Jack was already at the door, his feet illuminated by the band of light seeping through the gap between the bottom of the wood and the floor.
‘Are you two coming or not?’ he whispered loudly.
Harry grabbed Little Tom’s hand and they padded to the door. Jack opened it and stuck his head out. They were all momentarily blinded by the harsh light of the corridor. From upstairs, they heard the sound of music coming from one of the nuns’ rooms. A band playing dance music on the radio.
Jack crept out into the corridor and ran soundlessly to the top of the stairs. He waved the other two to join him. Harry and Little Tom, still holding hands, slipped out of the room and crept along the wall to the stairs.
Jack was crouched down, gazing through the stair rods. ‘They’ve already gone to bed, but there will still be one awake in reception.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Little Tom.
Jack smiled. ‘You think this is the first time I’ve done this? Follow me, but don’t make a sound.’
They crept down the stairs, past the reception room. The door was closed and they heard the sound of a loud snore coming from inside.
‘Sounds like a pig,’ said Little Tom.
‘Shhhh....’ Jack stared at him angrily.
For a second the snoring stopped, followed by the sounds of lips smacking together as if tasting food.
The boys stood still, frozen with fear. Then the snoring began again, softer now.
They crept across the hallway, pushing open the door of the dining hall. It was dark and strangely quiet, the only light a grey moonlit haze fighting its way through the window next to the nuns’ table. Usually this place was full of children and the sound of metal plates being scraped clean of food. Now, the tables had been set for morning; a water glass, a spoon and a plate lined up evenly in front of each place. It was strangely lonely; a place that was missing people.
‘The kitchen is on the left.’ Jack pointed to a door.
They crept slowly towards it. In the dark, each boy kept as close as he could to the one in front. Jack taking the lead, Little Tom in the middle, Harry bringing up the rear.
They opened the kitchen door. Sister Iris had kept a single light burning above the stove, ready for one of the boys to start boiling the water for the porridge at five o’clock the next morning.
Jack ushered the other two in and closed the door. He produced the single silver key from his pocket. ‘I have to put this back before breakfast. She won’t miss it until then.’
He walked towards the larder door and inserted the key, turning it once. He pulled the door but it remained fastened. He pulled it again, but still it wouldn’t budge.
Harry stepped forward. ‘Let me.’ He gave the key an extra turn, feeling a solid click between his fingers. ‘This sort of key needs to be turned twice. Mr Beggs taught me.’
He grabbed hold of the handle and pulled. The door swung open, revealing a small room with a single window high up on the far wall. On the other three walls, rows of shelves held tins of meat, bags of flour, bottles of milk, more tins, jars of jam, glass bottles full of red liquid, more flour, bags of sugar and, on the third shelf, a plate with an untouched Victoria sponge.
‘How are we going to get it?’ asked Little Tom.
Jack ran back to the kitchen, returning with the wooden step the boys used when they had to stir the porridge. He placed it under the shelf and reached up. For a moment Harry thought he wasn’t tall enough, but Jack stretched up on his tiptoes and lifted the plate off the shelf.
‘Close the door.’
‘Why?’ asked Little Tom.
‘In case someone comes, stupid. The sisters don’t sleep all the time.’
Harry pulled the door shut. The larder was instantly dark, the only light a vague glow through the thick glass of the small window. He could no longer see the Victoria sponge but he could smell its sweetness – the rich, buttery cream; the tangy jam; the seeds sitting in a jelly of liquid sugar; the light pillow of sponge encasing everything.
Harry heard the soft clink of a plate being placed on the floor, followed by the rasp of a match against sandpaper. The larder was suddenly illuminated by the flare of a match. Jack lit a candle that stood on the bottom shelf, next to some tins of Spam.
‘I put this here yesterday, so we could see. “Be prepared.” I learnt that in the Scouts at my last place.’ He put the candle next to the sponge and sat down cross-legged
at one side. ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’ He plunged his bare hands into the centre of the sponge, grabbing a handful of cream and cake. ‘Dig in, lads.’
Harry plunged his tiny hand into the soft, moist cake, grabbing a handful. He shoved the cake into his mouth, tasting the rich butteriness of the cream, the sharp sweetness of the jam and the soft crumb of the sponge.
‘Ish good...’ said Little Tom, spitting out mouthfuls of sponge as he spoke.
Neither Jack nor Harry answered him. They just carried on scooping up handfuls of cake like mechanical diggers clearing a drain, until the cake became a dishevelled mess on the floor between them.
Harry sat back first, unable to eat another mouthful. ‘That... was... the... best...’
‘Have some more,’ said Little Tom, grabbing another handful.
Harry patted his stomach. ‘Can’t.’
Jack was the next to stop, but Little Tom kept scooping up handful after handful till it was nearly all gone.
‘How do you do it?’
‘Hungry... always hungry,’ answered Little Tom, his mouth and teeth covered in cream and cake. ‘Me mam used to make cakes. Not as good as this, though. No cream.’
‘So you’ve got a mam?’ asked Jack.
Little Tom reached for one of the last lumps of cake. ‘She’s going to come for me soon, when she’s back on her feet. What about you?’ Little Tom put another small chunk of cake in his mouth.
‘No mam. No dad.’ Jack seemed to think for a moment. ‘Always been here. The sisters said they were killed in the war. I’m an orphan,’ he said, a strange pride in his voice.
Little Tom scooped up the final morsel of cake on the plate, dropped it into his mouth and licked his fingers.
Harry felt the fullness of his stomach. He thought back to the last time his mum had visited him. She seemed fatter than usual and they had taken a long bus ride to watch a movie – Captain Horatio Hornblower with Gregory Peck – and then had afternoon tea in the Lyons Tea House.
‘How are Mr and Mrs Beggs treating you?’ she had asked.
‘Good, they’re nice.’
‘And David?’
‘He’s my brother.’
‘He’s not your real brother.’
‘I know, but he’s as good as a real one.’
His mum had reached over and touched his hand. ‘Would you like another brother or sister, Harry?’
He didn’t know what to say, so he shrugged his shoulders.
His mum’s lips were very red when she spoke. ‘I’ve met a good man, Harry. We’re going to get married, have a child and settle down. When we do, I want you to come back and live with us. Would you like that?’
Harry thought for a moment. ‘Can David come too?’
‘He can visit if he wants.’
Harry ate his salmon sandwich. ‘Okay.’
His mum didn’t say anything else after that, but took him back to Mr and Mrs Beggs that night.
‘What about you, Harry?’ asked Jack.
Harry was dragged back from the memory of his mother to a small larder, lit by a single candle and with the remnants of a Victoria sponge at his feet. ‘What?’
‘Do you have a mum and dad?’
‘I think I do. I’ve never met me dad, he’s new, but I know me mam. She said I was going to—’
As Harry spoke, the door to the larder suddenly flew open and a large black shape was silhouetted in the doorway.
‘Big rats. We have big rats!’ Sister Tomasina’s eyes were blazing. ‘Do you know what we do with rats?’ She reached for the strap hanging next to the rosary at her waist.
Chapter Twelve
June 18, 2017
Eyam, Derbyshire, England
Inside, the suitcase was lined with brown silk, the colour still as vibrant and rich as the day it was bought. The photographs and papers were just stuffed inside, not neatly packed or sorted. On top of the pile were Mass cards, their black edges and messages of ‘In Loving Memory’ a stark contrast to the white card on which they were printed.
Vera opened the top one. On the left was an old picture of her father; flat cap on his head, smoking a pipe, a smile creasing his face as if to say, ‘Don’t take a picture now, I’m not ready.’ Opposite the picture was a simple message:
‘The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass will be said for the repose of the soul of’ in bold type, followed by a handwritten message that said ‘Norman Atkins by P.P. Edward O’Leary at St Hugh’s.
She closed the card quickly. Memories of the funeral flooded back to her; her father’s casket placed in front of the altar, the priest holding the host high in both hands, Charlie reading the prayer, and then standing in front of the grave just before the coffin was to be lowered into it, rain sleeting down, the priest beneath a black umbrella intoning some final words.
‘There are a lot of Mass cards, for both Mum and Dad. Most are from other parishioners and Dad’s mates in the water board. I put them all in the case after his funeral. Seemed like the right place.’
Vera gathered together all the different shapes and sizes, forming them into two neat piles; one for her dad and one for her mum. She didn’t open her mother’s cards. She couldn’t bear to see the picture of her taken one day in Blackpool, her hair blowing in the breeze off the sea, her eyes squinting as Dad squeezed the shutter release. It was Vera’s father’s favourite picture of his wife and it was the one they had used at her funeral.
Beneath the Mass cards were a jumble of photographs, all with serrated edges and depicting faded black and white images. A line of women beside an old-fashioned bus. A young girl sitting on the grass, her legs tucked demurely beneath her. Two women staring into the camera with the stamp of a Southport studio in the corner. A soldier in British uniform, the flash of an armoured corps on his shoulder.
‘I think that’s Dad,’ said Charlie.
Vera brought the picture closer to her face. ‘It doesn’t look like him.’
‘He was younger then; it was probably taken as he joined up. I think the war aged him. You know, he never talked about it. I tried to ask him, “What did you do in the war, Dad?” The sort of question kids ask. But he wouldn’t tell me. He never told me.’
‘I can find out, if you like,’ said Jayne. ‘Some of the records are online now.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘I don’t want to know, thank you, not now. No point.’
Vera continued to search through the photographs. A group of women in a pub, a table of empty glasses in front of them, all smiling at the camera. Another picture of the same child as before, carrying a soldier in a red coat and a busby. Older now, his hand covering his eyes as he shielded them from the sun.
She looked on the back, hoping to find a pencilled name or date, but it was empty apart from the stamp of the studio which had developed it: Marley and Sons, Oldham.
‘Do you know who this is?’ she asked.
Charlie shook his head. ‘None of the pictures have captions. I guess we’ll never know who they were. Just friends of Mum and Dad.’
When she had finished looking at the photographs, she sorted them neatly on the table in front of her. Pictures of her mum. Pictures of her dad. Pictures of relatives she knew. Pictures of places. And finally, the largest pile – unknown pictures. Memories that were lost forever when her mum and dad died.
At the bottom of the case was a pile of old corporation rent books from 1947 to 1958. The rent for each week paid, crossed out and signed by some long-dead council official. ‘Why did she keep these?’
Charlie shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Mum never threw anything away. Perhaps these were memories of a more difficult time. Or perhaps she kept them just in case the council ever asked again; as a record to show she had paid her way.’
‘I remember it was always Mum who controlled the purse strings. Every Friday, Dad handed over his pay packet and Mum gave him back some money for his pipe tobacco and his fishing.’
‘Nowt’
s changed, has it, Vera?’ said Robert.
She nudged him with her elbow. ‘I’m not that bad, am I?’
‘You’re not. I don’t have a pay packet any more to give you, but I know I would if I were still working.’ He smiled at her and gave her a peck on the cheek.
‘When you two lovebirds have finished. They are in the pocket.’ Charlie’s voice was harsh, almost jealous.
Vera stared at the case. ‘What’s in the pocket?’
Charlie tapped the silk lining of the lid. For the first time, Vera noticed an elasticated flap. She pulled it open and inside was a thin bundle of letters tied with a purple ribbon.
‘Mother kept them there, tied up.’
Vera closed the lid, putting the bundle of letters on top of the case. She undid the ribbon and held the first letter in her hand. On the cover, in faded blue ink, was the name Freda Duckworth and an address in Oldham. Vera tried to read the post-mark but the stamp was smudged, as if it had been rubbed out.
The letter was torn open roughly at the top. Inside was a single sheet of off-white lined paper with a bold typed message in black across the top. ‘Save paper – there’s a war on.’
Beneath it was an address in Delph – a village about six miles from Oldham – written in a neat, orderly hand, but undated.
Vera began to read:
‘Dear Miss Duckworth, thank you for your letter enquiring after Harry. He came to us last month from the home and he’s settled in very well. He’s a happy, jolly boy who loves to play with our son, David. We have two other children from the home at the moment and they all get on very well together. Harry especially loves his food, he’s got a tummy on him already.’
Vera paused for a moment, her voice beginning to break, and then she carried on:
‘We’ll be happy for you to visit Harry at any time but can you please write to us to let us know? We’d like to prepare him for when you come, but he does know he has a mother and that she loves him.’
Again, Vera stopped reading for a second, wiping her eyes before continuing once more. ‘It says “yours sincerely” but I can’t read the signature. Meggs or Beggs, or something like that.’