by S Block
She was determined to look and sound the part. To help overcome her nerves she had decided to mimic Frances to some extent – sitting up very straight, and pitching her voice at a slightly louder level than anyone else.
‘First off, thank you, ladies, for taking the time to be part of this subcommittee. I know you’re all busy, so it’s very good of you to come out and do extra to help us decide what we can do for the trekkers – or refugees – coming into our neck of the woods.’
‘And indeed, our woods,’ said Isobel, smiling.
The women around the table – bar one – nodded in gratitude at Steph’s appreciation of them, and at Isobel’s joke.
‘Our conversation today is based on the assumption Liverpool and Crewe will carry on getting bombed for a while yet. The weather will only get worse with winter. The refugees will arrive colder, wetter and hungrier than they do now. They’ll need proper shelter. Fields and woods won’t be any use.’
Mrs Talbot let out a loud sigh of disdain, designed to reveal her exasperation at the entire conversation. Steph had anticipated she might be somewhat disruptive and refused to be knocked off her stride.
‘My first suggestion is we use the village hall for families with children, other buildings – barns, unused sheds – for everyone else.’
‘All children?’ asked Mrs Talbot, sensing the first opportunity to quibble.
Steph was minded to consider any intervention from Mrs Talbot as potentially mischievous, but tried to resist the temptation to dismiss her out of hand at the outset.
Frances would be fair, until Mrs Talbot lost the right to be treated fairly.
‘How do you mean “all children”?’ Steph asked.
‘Do we need to prioritise a fifteen-year-old child in the village hall in the same way as a six-year-old? They’re both children, but one would fare well in a farm outhouse, while the other might not.’
To everyone’s surprise, it was a reasonable point. Though Steph suspected Mrs Talbot was raising it more to sabotage the meeting by picking holes in every proposition than in a genuine attempt to resolve the issue, she felt obliged to take it seriously.
‘What do you think?’ she said, throwing Mrs Talbot’s question to the others. The faces looking back frowned in contemplation. Teresa was the first to speak up.
‘The problem with a cut-off age is that it could split up families, and no one would stand for that. I don’t think we’d want to either.’
Mrs Talbot was quick to pounce.
‘If they’re coming into our area and expect to be looked after then they’ll just have to accept what’s on offer. The villagers are people trying to get through the war as much as they are. We are not hoteliers, and Great Paxford is not a hotel.’
Steph felt all eyes turn to her. She swallowed hard as words started to form in her head. In any other circumstance, she would wait until entire sentences had come together before voicing them. But here, she was expected to have answers, and quickly.
‘No one’s suggesting Great Paxford becomes a hotel. Teresa’s saying there’s no point having rules like “children of this age go there” and “children of that age go there” if the refugees—’
‘Can we please stop calling them that? It sounds so silly.’
‘They are people taking refuge,’ said Isobel. ‘It’s accurate.’
‘It’s melodramatic, designed to extract more sympathy than they deserve.’
Teresa could feel her cheeks growing hot with anger.
If she was a man I’d punch him.
Steph felt the meeting was beginning to slip from her control.
‘We can’t split up families. There’d be riots,’ she said, trying to sound firm. ‘We’d be the same in their position.’
‘In their position, I would stay put,’ snapped back Mrs Talbot, ‘and not force myself on the kindness of strangers.’
‘That’s funny, Mrs Talbot,’ said Teresa. ‘You don’t sound very kind. Ever.’
Mrs Talbot turned to face Teresa with a face like that of a snake preparing to strike, open-mouthed, tongue tasting the air, fangs ready to deliver a venomous blow. But before the first acid words could leave her, she was suddenly distracted by something through the kitchen window, over Teresa’s left shoulder. Something that managed to stop Gwen Talbot in her tracks was something worth seeing. Everyone but Isobel turned to see what she was looking at.
Through Steph’s kitchen window they saw the same man Mrs Talbot and her cabal had hounded out of Brindsley’s a week earlier, walking slowly along the lane towards the farmhouse, holding a child in his arms. Mrs Talbot stood up.
‘This is what happens when you give them an inch at dusk,’ she hissed. ‘They take a mile in daylight.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Leave him to me.’
Steph was already standing and placed a restraining hand on Mrs Talbot’s arm.
‘This is my farm,’ she said.
‘You’ve a shotgun?’
‘Who is it?’ asked Isobel, trying to keep track of the conversation.
‘A coloured, carrying a child,’ said Mrs Talbot. ‘Coming towards the house.’
Mrs Talbot consciously made what was happening outside appear threatening.
Teresa watched the man approach the farmhouse, her expression becoming increasingly confused.
‘Not his child, though . . .’ she said, almost to herself.
The other women looked at Teresa, whose gaze was fixed on the approaching man, and on the small child he was holding.
‘It’s white.’
Chapter 43
Sarah was talking on the telephone to Noah’s headmaster in the hall, asking why none of his staff had noticed that Noah was clearly feeling distressed about his life at the school. So distressed that he had fled.
‘Fled is such an emotive word,’ said Dr Nelms.
Sarah well understood why he made Frances so angry.
‘Children are emotional creatures, don’t you think, Headmaster?’
Sarah was in no mood for semantics. Noah’s disappearance was taking its toll on everyone in the household and this infernal man was refusing to shoulder any responsibility for not knowing the child’s state of mind. Arguably, it should have been Frances speaking to him, but she had started to despise the sound of the man’s voice, and no longer trusted herself to be civil.
Alison had brought Frances back very late the previous night and she hadn’t made it to her bed. Instead, she’d had two glasses of brandy to warm her up, before swiftly falling asleep on the sofa. Sarah covered her sister with a blanket before retiring to the spare room. She had come down in the morning to find Frances still asleep, and decided to let her rest for as long as she needed.
She was the same when Peter died. Everything in her life had gone so smoothly until then. It’s left her ill-equipped for serious shock. It overwhelms her completely. Was I any different when I learned of Adam’s capture? I think so. I went into a state for a few days but I forced myself back into the world. I still struggle every day with the absolute silence on his whereabouts – on how he is. A vicar’s wife learns to conceal her own anxieties. Lead by example. People expect you to smile serenely and keep paddling.
That morning, Sarah had found Claire keeping herself occupied in the kitchen by furiously polishing items of silverware that had no need of it. She had made herself a pot of tea, and then called the police in Warrington to see if they had received any news of Noah since they had last spoken. They hadn’t. Alison then called round with Boris to see how Frances was faring, and whether there was any news about Noah. Upon hearing voices at the door, Frances had woken with a start, believing the caller might be connected with Noah’s whereabouts, believing the worst. When she saw it was Alison at the door and not the police, Frances had almost wept with relief, and invited Alison and Boris inside. It was then she’d asked Sarah if she would telephone Dr Nelms for an update.
Sarah dragged her attention back to her conversation with Dr Nelms. It seemed he had nothing to add
. He sounded increasingly beleaguered as he simply reiterated, ‘While Noah’s disappearance is a cause for concern, it isn’t necessarily a cause for alarm.’
‘Last night was his second night by himself. An eight-year-old child. And you have the temerity to suggest there is no cause for alarm?’
Dr Nelms had little more he could say that he hadn’t already said over the last two days several times over. Boys are resilient. Boys are resourceful. Someone will almost certainly have taken him in. He’s possibly lost but that won’t last long. On and on in a chain of empty reassurance. Without further information the headmaster knew he had little option but to repeat everything he had already said.
It was while listening to the headmaster dispense more palliative platitudes that Sarah suddenly heard the approaching rumble of a large vehicle on the drive. As far as she was aware, Frances wasn’t expecting delivery of anything requiring a lorry for its transportation. Perhaps it was a military vehicle taking a wrong turn? Dr Nelms was in full emollient flow when Claire appeared in the entrance to the passage to the kitchen, her own curiosity piqued by the noise outside.
‘Mrs Collingborne . . . ?’ she said in a loud whisper. Sarah turned to Claire. ‘Can you hear that?’
Sarah nodded.
‘Shall I go and see what it is?’ Claire asked.
Sarah nodded again, and covered the telephone’s mouthpiece.
‘If you wouldn’t mind. I’m talking to Noah’s useless headmaster . . .’
Claire hurried along the hallway to the front door. What she saw when she opened it and looked out on to the drive almost caused her heart to stop, just for a moment.
Steph was coming up the drive on her green tractor. Sitting beside her was a coloured man, on whose lap sat . . . Noah, curled into the man’s protective arms, asleep. Steph waved, smiling. Claire turned back into the house, and shouted at the very top of her lungs.
‘Mrs Barden! Mrs Collingborne! Mrs Barden! Noah! Noah!’
Not waiting for a response, Claire found herself hurtling towards the tractor, her heart thumping. By the time she reached the slowing vehicle, Noah had opened his eyes. He saw Claire running towards him – and behind her, Frances and Sarah, followed by Alison with Boris, who sensed this was a moment to bark his throat hoarse. Noah slowly rubbed his eyes as Claire drew near, bringing her into focus. The clearer she became the wider his smile grew.
As the women reached the tractor, the stranger holding Noah carefully handed the weary boy down into a grateful net of outstretched arms, his hands and fingers touching and grasping theirs as anxiety melted into unalloyed relief on all sides. Frances eventually held him in her arms and peered into Noah’s eyes, red from lack of sleep and exposure to the elements. She carefully brushed the matted hair from his forehead, and squeezed his little hand as if to prove to herself he was back in the flesh.
‘Where on Earth have you been? I’ve been worried sick!’ she said.
‘We all have,’ added Claire, wanting Noah to know how much she and Spencer had also worried over his absence.
‘Are you hurt?’ Frances enquired. ‘Hungry? You must be hungry—’
Sarah could see the child was wilting under so much concern, and decided to step in and save him from drowning under a wave of questions.
‘Why don’t we let Noah tell us what happened and how he’s feeling in his own time? Once we’ve got him back into the house.’
Noah slowly blinked at the women looking down at him then reached up and put his arms around Frances’s neck, resting his hot little face against her shoulder. Frances looked up at Steph on the tractor.
‘I can’t thank you enough for bringing him home. How on Earth did you find him?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Steph. ‘This gentleman did.’
The women looked from Steph to the stranger sitting beside her.
‘With God’s help,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have found him on my own. I was guided every step of the way.’
The women looked up at his smooth, dark face, and gentle eyes and smile. Alison was immediately taken by his refusal to accept credit for what amounted to rescuing the boy from wherever he found him, and bringing him home.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Frances said. ‘You have made us all very, very happy and relieved.’
‘Oh, you are more than welcome. More than welcome. It was my privilege.’
There was something familiar about the man’s face, but Frances couldn’t recall what. Sarah placed a soothing hand on Noah’s back.
‘Let’s get him inside,’ she said. ‘He looks utterly exhausted.’
Frances nodded, feeling a lump of affection welling in her throat.
‘Nothing more will be said, young man,’ she whispered in his hot left ear, ‘until you’ve had something to eat, a long bath and an even longer rest.’
Exhausted and starving, Noah was swiftly fed, bathed and put to bed, where he slept the sleep of the dead in his own bed, in his own room. Downstairs, John Smith, the fifty-two-year-old man who had brought Noah back to Great Paxford, sat before an emotional audience of four women, and explained how the previous night he had come upon Noah lying like a foetus among the roots of a large oak.
‘I don’t believe it was an accident, ladies. You’re looking at a man who doesn’t believe in much beyond what he can touch, see, smell and hear. But I believe something guided me to that oak tree. Call it what you will. God, or Fate. But do not use the word “coincidence”. It was meant to be. Why else was I released from Walton three days early for no apparent reason.’
Frances, Sarah, Claire, Alison and Boris stared at John, agog.
‘Walton?’ said Sarah, trying not to sound nervous. ‘As in Walton Prison?’
She knew the name because Adam used to occasionally visit if one of his parishioners had been unfortunate enough to find himself behind bars, and needed guidance or comfort.
John nodded.
‘No cause for alarm, I give you my word. I was held for six months for teaching respect to two white lads I caught throwing stones and worse at an elderly woman from my community.’
‘What’s worse than stones?’ asked Alison.
‘Names.’ He looked at her solemnly with his dark brown eyes. ‘Certain names I won’t repeat in respectable company. I hope you understand.’
Alison nodded, appalled yet intrigued. She admired his dignified refusal to deliver a cheap shock. She could guess the names to which he referred, and the fact that he had stood up against their use only raised her respect another degree.
‘Of course,’ said Frances.
‘I was released on the sixteenth of September. Three days early. Administrative error. I didn’t question it, just collected my belongings and walked out, hoping not to hear my name called between my cell and the front gate. It wasn’t, and I ran home. Two days later my old wing was hit by a German bomb. Twenty-two souls, it took, in a heartbeat. Twenty-two hearts blown to kingdom come in their cells.’ John leaned forward conspiratorially. The women leaned in to listen.
‘Should have been twenty-three.’
Frances looked at him and shook her head.
‘I am so glad it wasn’t.’
‘A week and a half later my street was flattened in a night raid. Every house and every soul in them, up to my house.’
‘No . . .’ said Claire, scarcely believing John’s run of luck.
‘It was then I decided to sleep outside the city for as long as the bombardment continued. A man only has so much luck. I’d used all of mine, and someone else’s too.’
‘Whose?’ asked Claire.
‘It’s a turn of phrase, dear,’ whispered Sarah, not wishing to interrupt John’s story.
‘Do continue, Mr Smith,’ encouraged Alison. ‘You joined the trekkers.’
John nodded.
‘I walked out with them. You couldn’t not, there were so many. But once we were in the countryside I split away to find my own place to sleep. Easier to find a small, perfect spot for one person than some
thing similar for dozens. If there’s one thing life’s taught me, it’s that it’s hard enough taking care of yourself.’
‘Where did you sleep?’ asked Frances.
‘A small copse away from the road. Good shelter. Little stream bubbling through, so I’d not want for water in the night. Used it for weeks and no one came within a mile. Literally a mile. Until yesterday.’
‘Noah . . . !’ said Claire, excited to be one step ahead.
John nodded.
‘I came into the copse as per usual and found a little intruder in a school uniform, fast asleep, spark out between the roots of an oak I was using to bed down in myself. I woke him up, asked his name. He looked me dead in the eye, said, “Noah, sir.” Polite child. We shared the food I’d brought out, and he told me he’d run away from school because other boys picked on him ’cause of how he spoke. ’Cause of the Scouse in his throat. He told me he tried to talk like them but they bullied him all the more, even locked him in a closet, poured salt in his food and hid his uniform. I told him, there are some things worth being bullied for – the things that make you who you are.’
‘Children can be dreadful,’ Frances muttered.
‘He said one day he woke up and decided to go home. I asked where that was and he said, “Was Liverpool, but now it’s a village called Great Paxford.”’
Frances smiled, tears brimming in her eyes.
‘Well, I knew the village.’
‘How?’ asked Alison.