‘But we’ve got to get our story straight.’ He glanced at Jenny. ‘It’s important. So here’s what we tell folks. We’re a family called Mercer. That’ll be easier for you to remember, won’t it, Jen? If we use Osborne, you might slip up. Besides, they’re not looking for an Arthur Mercer, now are they?’
‘Go on,’ Dot said grimly. ‘So, we’re married, are we?’
Arthur grinned. ‘S’what you wanted, ain’t it, Dot?’
Dot made a noise in her throat like a low growl, but Arthur ignored it. ‘We’ve come from London – no use trying to hide the accent, is there? We’ve brought our kid out of the bombing.’
‘And what are you going to do, now that you’ve failed your medical so convincingly?’ Dot asked sarcastically. ‘By the way, have you got a heart condition?’
Arthur laughed loudly. ‘Course I ain’t, but there’s several geezers on a nice little earner impersonating men who’ve been called up and don’t want to go. Cost me about two hundred nicker but it was worth it.’
Jenny felt sick. She thought back to the Thornton family; how they’d all gone willingly into the services and Georgie had perhaps given his life in the service of his country. Even the young girl could see the difference between Arthur and the Thornton brothers. They were fervently patriotic; Arthur was not. He was only concerned with preserving his own skin and making money out of adversity. She bit her lip to stop herself from saying something she shouldn’t, but even that did not stop the words bursting out. ‘That’s cheating.’
For once her mother did not smack her across the back of the head and Arthur only smirked and said, ‘You have to do a bit of duckin’ and divin’, darlin’, now don’t you?’
‘So, how are you going to earn an honest living here?’ Dot asked, her question heavy with sarcasm.
‘You mean work?’ Arthur looked scandalized, as if he’d allowed a dirty word to pass his lips. He stared at Dot and when she didn’t answer but merely stared back at him, he said shortly, ‘I’ll make contacts, don’t you worry. If I get into the cities, I’ll soon—’
‘Then why can’t we live in a city, Arthur? Why – ?’
‘I shan’t tell you again. It’s safer out here in the middle of nowhere. Besides,’ he smirked, ‘where d’you think I’m going to get the goods from if not from the country? Plenty of “deals” to be done with the farmers, I reckon.’ He winked. ‘I’ve got a few documents they might be interested in. For a price, of course.’
‘What sort of documents?’
‘Never you mind, Dot.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘What the eye doesn’t see, an’ all that.’
Dot frowned but she asked no more questions, but Jenny had no such compunction. ‘You could always work on the farm, Uncle Arthur. They’re always looking for hands, now such a lot of the men have gone to war.’
Arthur looked askance. ‘You expect me to get togged up in wellies and a smock and milk cows and feed the pigs? With my heart condition?’
‘You just said—’ she began, but Dot snapped, ‘Shut it, Jen. Don’t start interferin’ in what you don’t understand.’
Jenny turned away before they should see. She was grinning quietly to herself. She knew exactly what they were talking about. Uncle Arthur no more had a heart condition than she did and he didn’t earn his money honestly, either. Her smile faded. What was going to happen to all of them if he got caught? She shuddered and tried not to think about it.
Twenty-Eight
To her surprise, Jenny settled in very well at the village school. The local children had already become used to evacuees arriving, to their strange accents and different ways. They’d got over that first curiosity and the teasing stage, so Jenny found herself accepted almost at once. In fact, two girls took her under their wing.
‘My name’s Beryl Fenton,’ the dark haired one of the two said on Jenny’s first morning. ‘You’ve come to live on our farm in one of Dad’s cottages. This is my best friend, Susan Gordon. Her dad’s a farmer too. She lives on the next farm on the other side of the hill from us.’ Beryl had linked her arm through Jenny’s. ‘You can be friends with us, if you like. We’ll call for you every morning and walk home together at night and teacher says you can sit with us.’ She beamed. ‘I’ve already asked her.’
So Jenny allowed herself to be taken in hand by the friendly girls. Beryl was the chatty, more open one of the two. Susan was quieter but none the less friendly. Soon, the three were such firm friends that they whispered and giggled together in class and were often in trouble as a trio. Their class teacher was a young married woman whose husband was in the RAF. She was slim and pretty and kindly. All her pupils adored her and so behaved reasonably well for her. Mrs Matthews only had to adopt a disappointed expression for her pupils to feel ashamed of themselves.
Each afternoon, after classes had finished, the three girls walked home together from the village school by the river, over the bridge and up the long lane towards Mr Fenton’s farm. The lane wound up the hill past a big house standing in it’s own grounds. The three girls paused at the gate and stared up the driveway.
‘What’s that place?’ Jenny asked.
‘Our landlord lives there. Dad’s only a tenant farmer.’
‘He’s ours too,’ Susan put in. ‘Mr Forester’s a big landowner round here.’
It sounded just like Miles Thornton and his estate only perhaps on a much grander scale, Jenny thought. A wave of homesickness for Ravensfleet overwhelmed her. And for the people too. What were they all doing now? she wondered. And was Georgie home yet?
As they walked, Beryl continued to chatter. ‘Dad farms all these fields. We keep cows mainly, ’cos the land is too stony to plough, specially up near the quarry.’
‘We’ve got a few fields where we grow crops,’ Susan put in. ‘But we’ve got cows and a few sheep too.’
When they arrived at Wisteria Cottage, they found it locked up and no sign of Arthur’s van parked outside.
‘Why hasn’t your dad been called up?’ Susan asked suddenly.
Jenny ran her tongue around lips that were suddenly dry. Not only must she try to think of him as her father, but she must also tell lies to her new-found friends. Both actions went against the grain for Jenny. ‘He’s – he’s got a bad heart. He failed his medical.’
The girls were at once sympathetic and Jenny felt even worse. One on either side of her, they linked their arms through hers.
‘Come on,’ Beryl said kindly. ‘Let’s go to my house. Mum’ll’ve been baking today. There’s always something good to eat on baking day.’
Jenny was just about to ask how Beryl’s mother managed to find all the ingredients to bake cakes and such, when she remembered. They were on a farm. Of course Mrs Fenton had ready access to eggs, milk and butter. With one accord the three hungry girls quickened their steps.
As she stepped into the farmhouse kitchen, Jenny’s eyes widened. Every spare surface seemed to be filled with cakes and pastries and pies. And the aroma that filled the kitchen was mouth-watering on its own without the sight of all the goodies.
Beryl’s mother was round all over; she had a round face and a round little body covered with a copious white apron. And she was so kind and jolly as she bustled about her kitchen making her daughter’s friends welcome by placing a slice of cake in front of them and a glass of home-made lemonade. Jenny was reminded of how Mrs Beddows had always made her so welcome in the kitchen. Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of her life at the manor. It wasn’t only Georgie she missed, though he was top of the list. She missed Charlotte’s gentle kindness, the way Miles was forever thinking up things to do, not only with her but with all the evacuee children. She missed the cook and Kitty – and the solemn Wilkins. And Ben, even though he’d been so quiet, he’d been kind to her, showing her all the animals and taking her all round the farm. She even missed Philip; he’d been kind to her after Georgie . . .
‘So, lovey, what brings you to Derbyshire, then?’ Mrs Fenton asked.
/> Jenny stopped munching and stared at the woman, feeling a sudden jolt of fear. She swallowed the mouthful of cake and then realized that the farmer’s wife was only making polite conversation; she wasn’t trying to catch the girl out.
‘Just – just to get away from the bombing. A house in our street took a direct hit last week.’
The woman and the two girls stared at her in horror. ‘Was anybody – hurt?’
Jenny shook her head. ‘No. We were all down the underground.’ She saw them glance at one another, a mystified expression on their faces. ‘We all go down the underground and sleep on the platforms when there’s an air raid.’ She pulled a face. ‘And that is most nights. It’s safe down there, but we have to take blankets to sleep on and we all lie in rows on the platforms. It’s a bit draughty, but it’s better than bein’ bombed.’
‘How awful!’ Beryl murmured and Mrs Fenton cut another huge slice of cake and slipped it on to Jenny’s plate.
‘Thank you.’ Jenny dimpled prettily at her. ‘It’s not so bad, really,’ she went on, still referring to their nights spent in the underground. ‘We have a sing-song so we can’t hear the planes and the bombs dropping. I s’pose the worst is when the all-clear sounds and we go home to see what’s happened. That’s if we’ve still got a home to go to.’
‘Have you left a lot of your stuff at home?’ Susan asked. ‘Clothes and toys?’
Jenny bit her lip and avoided meeting their gaze as she nodded. But the girls and Mrs Fenton took it that the mention of the belongings she’d been obliged to leave behind was upsetting her. But the truth was that Jenny was ashamed to be implying that their flight from home was anything to do with the bombing and that she’d had to leave a stack of clothes and toys behind.
‘You can play with our toys,’ Beryl offered generously and her mother added, ‘And I might have some bits and pieces that Beryl’s grown out of. You’re a bit smaller than her.’
Tears prickled Jenny’s eyes at their kindness. Suddenly, she felt the overwhelming urge to confide a little of the truth – or as much of it as she dared.
‘I was ’vacuated when the war started. I went to a place in Lincolnshire near the sea. They were farmers too. It – it was nice,’ she finished lamely, unable to say just how wonderful it had been and how she wished she was back there. It would sound very ungrateful to these people who were being so kind to her now.
‘Why did you have to go back to the city, then?’ Susan asked. Jenny glanced at her. She was beginning to think that Susan, though the quieter of her two new friends, was a mite more shrewd than Beryl. She didn’t say a lot but when she did, her questions were probing.
Jenny shrugged, trying to avoid answering. She didn’t really know what the truth was herself. Miles and Charlotte had said they didn’t want her to go, that her mother had sent for her and there was nothing they could do about it, but Dot had said she hadn’t wanted Jenny back – that it was the Thorntons who didn’t want her. Jenny sighed. Maybe the truth was that none of them wanted her.
Seeing the girl’s hesitation, though not understanding the reason for it, Mrs Fenton said, ‘Maybe you could lend Jenny some of your books, Beryl.’
Beryl, plump like her mother, bounced up from the table. ‘That’s a good idea, Mum. D’you like reading, Jen?’
All at once she was back in the nursery at the manor, curled up on Georgie’s knee and listening to his deep voice reading to her.
Jenny nodded and in a husky voice asked, ‘You don’t happen to have The Wind in the Willows, do you?’
Twenty-Nine
‘So, what have they got up at the farm? Lots of pigs and chickens?’ Arthur questioned Jenny when she went back to the cottage, her arms full of books and jigsaw puzzles.
‘I didn’t see the animals. Not today,’ Jenny chattered innocently, still revelling in the kindness of her two new friends and of the farmer’s wife. ‘But Beryl says I can go up there on Saturday for my tea and we can watch the cows being milked. Mrs Fenton was ever so kind. We had lemonade and two huge pieces of cake. Can I go, Mum?’
Dot opened her mouth and Jenny was sure she’d been going to say ‘no’, but before she could utter a word, Arthur said, ‘’Course, you can go, Tich. Only you mustn’t ask anyone back here, you understand?’
Jenny turned her blue eyes on Arthur. ‘Why?’
‘’Cos we say not, that’s why,’ Dot snapped.
‘You take your things upstairs to your bedroom,’ Arthur said softly, ‘there’s a good girl. I’ll call you down when tea’s ready.’
‘She won’t need no tea if she’s been scoffin’ cakes all afternoon,’ Dot muttered. ‘The old bat might have sent some down for us.’
Jenny scooped up the books and fled upstairs.
The friendship between the three girls continued and deepened. It helped to lessen Jenny’s heartache over Georgie and her homesickness for Ravensfleet Manor. But life at home – which had never been easy – was even more difficult. Dot hated the countryside with a passion and her feelings were made worse by the fact that both Jenny and Arthur seemed to revel in it. Arthur abandoned his flash city suits for country clothes.
‘I’ll not stick out like a sore thumb,’ he told them when Dot and Jenny stared at him.
‘You’ve shaved your moustache off,’ Jenny remarked.
‘Yeah. Time for a change.’
‘Well, you needn’t think I’m going to start dressing like a frumpish farmer’s wife,’ Dot said nastily. She fluffed her hair and smoothed her dress down over her hips.
‘We’d not be so noticeable, Dot,’ Arthur pleaded. ‘We’d fit in better.’
‘Oh yeah? Till we open our mouths.’ She turned away. ‘You do what you like, Arthur. But I’m a Londoner, a cockney, and proud of it, so there.’
‘It’s nothing to do with that,’ Arthur frowned and his voice rose a little, ‘it’s common sense. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.’
Dot’s eyes narrowed and she turned on him. ‘If you hadn’t got the coppers after you, we wouldn’t have had to do a moonlight and bury ourselves in this godforsaken place.’
‘It’s not so bad, Mum,’ Jenny put in unwisely. ‘The people are real friendly when you get to know them.’
Dot rounded on her. ‘I’ll have less of your lip, miss, else you’ll feel the back of my hand.’
‘You’re a mite too handy with your slaps,’ Arthur growled. ‘Leave the kid alone.’
‘And you can mind yer own business, Arfer Osborne. I’ll bring my kid up how I like. T’ain’t none of your business.’
Arthur laughed. ‘But I’m not Arthur Osborne any more, am I, Dot? I’m Arthur Mercer. Your husband. And Jenny’s father.’
They glared at each other, but for once it was Dot who gave way first. She turned away, muttering, ‘’Owever did I get myself into this?’
On the Saturday afternoon, Jenny walked up the lane to the farm. Beryl and Susan ran to greet her.
‘Have you brought your wellies?’
Jenny looked down at her stout school shoes. Arthur had bought them for her when she’d started at the village school and they were the only decent pair, though second-hand, she possessed now, having grown out of the others.
‘I haven’t got any,’ she murmured, remembering the pair of rubber boots that Charlotte had bought for her; the ones she’d worn about the farm and to go to the beach in with Georgie. She’d not taken them home with her. There was no need for wellies in London.
‘I’ve got a pair that are too small for me now,’ Beryl said. ‘I don’t think Mum’s thrown them out yet. They’ll be in the washhouse. Come on.’
The wellington boots were still there, standing neatly beside the bigger ones belonging to Beryl’s father and mother. They fitted Jenny perfectly.
‘You can keep them, if you want. They’re no good to me.’
‘Thanks,’ Jenny said and felt her cheeks colouring. She felt like a charity case, but she did need boots like these for living in the country and D
ot would never buy her any.
Beryl and Susan took her all over the farm. She saw the pigs in the sties in the farmyard, peeped into the byre where later the cows would be brought in from the sloping hillside fields. Hens and ducks wandered freely in the field nearest to the house and, tethered nearby, were four goats – a billy and three nannies.
‘They’re for our use,’ Beryl said. ‘We get a lot of milk from the nanny goats.’
‘But don’t you get enough from the cows?’
‘Oh yeah, but that has to be sold. It’s all to do with the wartime regulations. I don’t understand it all and poor old Dad scratches his head every time more paperwork comes from the Ministry.’ She laughed. ‘And that’s nearly every day. No wonder he’s going bald.’
Jenny smiled. She hadn’t met Mr Fenton properly yet, she’d only seen him in the distance when Beryl had been showing her around the farmyard. And since he’d been wearing a cap, she hadn’t seen his hair.
‘Let’s go and have tea,’ Beryl said, ‘and then we can help fetch the cows in from the field to be milked.’
They’d washed their hands at the kitchen sink and were sitting down at the large kitchen table when Mr Fenton came in from the yard. He took off his boots, his cap and jacket, washed his hands and came to the table.
‘How do, girls. You must be Jenny.’ He held out a huge, callused paw and Jenny put her hand into his. His grasp was firm and warm but gentle.
Mrs Fenton sat down too and she and her husband chatted to the three girls as if they were equals. Jenny felt their friendliness envelop her. She was going to like it here. It was not as wonderful as Ravensfleet had been; nothing ever could be, but Honeysuckle Farm on the Derbyshire hillside was going to be the next best thing, she was sure.
If only she could write to Charlotte and tell her, but Arthur had impressed upon her that she mustn’t write to any of her friends, not even to Bobby back home. ‘No one must know where we are, darlin’. You understand, don’t you?’ His voice had hardened and she’d felt the veiled threat. His words had filled her with foreboding, but here in the warmth of the Fentons’ kitchen, she pushed her anxieties aside.
Jenny's War Page 17