by Milly Adams
Bryony stared at her, and breathed in the smell that oozed from the darkness of the house.
‘Get in here, you little . . .’ The woman stopped.
Celia left Bryony’s side, her head down. ‘Sorry, Missus.’
There were no tears. The darkness of the house was the darkness of Bryony’s Dunkirk nightmares. Did this child even know how to cry? Did she know a world that was better than this? Where were her family? If they existed, why didn’t they bother to find out how she was? Where was the billeting officer? Why did she never check?
Celia was disappearing into that darkness, and now Bryony moved, leaping up and hauling the child to her, lifting her and backing down the step. ‘She won’t be coming back, Mrs Galloway.’ Carefully she lowered her and eased Celia behind her, standing between her and the old hag, for that’s what she was: an old hag, a witch, an appalling witch.
The woman just looked at her. ‘Good riddance, I say. I only did it for the allowance. You can fetch her ID and ration card in the morning.’ She slammed the door.
Together they began their walk back, Bryony holding on to the child in case she ran off. ‘We’ll find you somewhere better, Celia. Then we can let your mum know.’
‘I got a sister, not a mum. She ain’t got time to see to me, she’s busy with her blokes, really busy now cos of the soldiers, that’s why she sent me away. They’re coming and going a lot more, and I gets in the way.’
Bryony followed the narrow beam of her torch along the road. No cars passed, which wasn’t surprising with the fuel rationing. Blokes always there, doing what? She didn’t ask. Enough was enough. She shone the torch on her watch, and then heard hurrying footsteps gaining on them from behind. She pulled Celia to her. ‘Hush,’ she said, switching her torch off and holding it like a weapon. The footsteps drew nearer. She spun round. ‘Stand back!’ she shouted.
Adam’s voice came out of the darkness. ‘Turn the torch on, for heaven’s sake, Bee. You didn’t really think we’d let you come without backup surely. Who knows what you’d get up to – I’ve been togging along behind from the start. Let’s hurry and we can each tumble into a nice warm bed, at last, because it’s been a long day. What do you say, Celia?’
She looked up at him. ‘You’ll be cross in the morning, when I’ve wet it.’
‘Oh, never mind about that, worse things happen at sea. Tell you what, let’s hear about Bee’s flying test, because that’s where she’s been today. Somewhere near London, showing someone if she can fly well enough to help ferry aeroplanes.’
The three of them walked along, following the beam, while Bee talked quietly about the Tiger Moth, how it felt to fly, and then Adam talked about his boat and how it felt to be on the sea, fishing for lobster, or line mackerel, or taking out holidaymakers. When they arrived home, April had already made up a bed. ‘I know you too well, dearest Bee,’ she murmured as they escorted Celia to a middle bedroom, in which there were twin beds.
‘Look, Celia.’ April pointed to the waterproof rubber cover over the mattress, then pulled up the sheet to cover it. ‘So, it doesn’t matter what happens in the night. I think, though, we will pop you in the bath, late as it is. We need to see what nasty scratches those brambles made.’
‘Don’t have baths, Missus.’
Bryony said, ‘Oh yes you do. Mrs Cottrall has some nice smelly stuff that Eddie flew over from Paris for her before the war.’ Again Bryony wondered why on earth she hadn’t understood earlier about the relationship between these two people.
As a distraction Bryony told Celia about Eddie’s flying and how he was away for thirteen days and back for two, and before the child realised they were in the bathroom. The man in question had already run the bath. He left them to it. ‘I need to get some sleep, I’m off at dawn to fly more aircraft, Celia. But I will see you again, I’m quite sure.’
The women bathed her, and washed her hair. They did not mention her bruises because that would be dealt with later but they put iodine on her scratches. It stung and turned her skin yellow. April said, ‘Ah, but warriors need to keep their wounds clean.’
Celia had nits too, but not many. They helped her out of the bath, wrapped her in a towel and she hung her head over the basin while April worked up a lather with her own shampoo. Bryony rushed down for vinegar. They rinsed Celia’s hair free of shampoo, and the lice came with it. They soaked her hair with vinegar, promising her it wouldn’t smell, and then ran the steel comb through to remove the nits, while she squirmed and protested. Bryony asked if she’d prefer to have it all cut off instead. That calmed the situation.
April found an old nightie of Hannah’s in the ‘just in case’ drawer while Bryony carried Celia through to the bedroom. They closed the blackout blinds and the flowered curtains before switching on the light and leading her to the mirror. Celia’s clean hair was blonde, not the dirty brown it had appeared. ‘Vinegar makes blonde hair even blonder, and more beautiful,’ Bryony said.
Celia pulled a face. ‘The steel comb don’t. It just hurts.’
‘That it does,’ Bryony agreed. ‘I had to have it when I was growing up, but I’d rather that than have a shaved head.’
Celia stared at her. ‘You’ve ’ad ’em too, have you?’
‘Most children do.’
Celia’s relief was palpable. ‘I thought I was a bad cow again.’
Bryony felt April’s hand on her back. Together they said, ‘Your name is Celia. You must never think of yourself as anything else. Your new foster parents won’t think you are bad, ever. We’ll make sure of that.’
Celia looked from one to another, then moved stiffly to the bed. The bruising must hurt. Again they said nothing but instead tucked her in. It was now nearly one in the morning. ‘I’ll see Mrs Sanderson tomorrow, it’s far too late tonight, and then I will wring her ruddy neck,’ Bryony whispered, as they shut the door. ‘Bad billeting officer, clearly.’
Celia called, ‘Don’t shut the door, Miss Bee. Please don’t shut it.’ Bryony opened it again. ‘There, now try to sleep, you’re quite safe.’
April said, ‘I would like to come with you. I know the old trout, and it’s time she took some responsibility. She must find this child somewhere suitable.’
As they spoke, Adam nipped from his room into the bathroom. ‘I’m up early for the appointment with the doc. I could be signed off, you never know, and get back into the fight. Get some sleep, Bee, you must be whacked, you’ve had a long day.’
She was, but there was little sleep for her, because Celia cried out several times in what was left of the night. In the end Bryony gave up, and instead of returning to her room she crawled into the other twin bed and talked of the Dragonette, the clouds, the buffeting wind, and it was for her peace of mind as much as the child’s.
They left Celia with the pregnant mothers, Catherine and Anne, in Combe Cottage, though she should have been in school. But it transpired she had not been while in Devon and not a lot in London. She was eight, she said, and her sums and reading weren’t very good.
It was of this Bryony and April talked as they walked to Mrs Sanderson’s cottage. ‘Best we hurry, before she buffs her badge and bustles off to be important around the place,’ April said.
It was a beautiful day. The verges were alive with vetch, cornflowers and even the odd bee orchid. Bees proliferated and midges darted amongst the profusion. Bryony was tired, her eyes felt dry, her head ached. As April stepped out, swinging her arms and humming, Bryony murmured, ‘It must be exhausting always being so cheerful.’
‘You’re one to talk. You always have a spring in your step and ooze energy, young Bee, just like your father, dear old Reggie.’
‘Don’t you worry about him?’
‘Who?’ Suddenly April’s tone was guarded.
Bryony laughed, and slipped her arm through April’s. ‘Eddie, of course. It’s as plain as a pikestaff you love one another, but why do you both keep it quiet?’
April said nothing until they reached the stile le
ading to the west end of Combe Village and Miss Sanderson’s thatched longhouse. ‘Why do you think?’
They clambered over and walked single file along the edge of the potato field, scaring three pheasants into a squawking lift-off, but they were so fat they took ages to achieve height. ‘They’ll never make old bones – they’ll be picked off by the guns if they don’t sort out their take-offs,’ Bryony muttered. ‘And to answer your question, I have no idea why.’
Ahead of her, April shrugged. ‘At the moment your mother is away, so we can relax, and not upset her.’ She stopped now, and waited for Bryony. ‘Your mother is a fragile woman, Bee, you know that, and finds things hard to cope with. The worst day of her life was when she lost Reggie. Eddie and I knew how we felt about each other but how could we say so in front of her? Besides, as I say, we know how we feel, and we have a good life together. Remember I have – well, had – the cottage for privacy.’
Bryony put up her hand. ‘Stop right there.’
April laughed. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t be hearing about the details. We’re happy, settled, and one day we can be more open, but not yet. It works, and when your mother returns you will say nothing, and things will trot on with discretion, as always.’
They continued walking and soon the back of the longhouse, which was a former cider house, hove into sight. Bryony muttered, ‘You’re a good woman, and Eddie is a good man.’
‘We’re a happy man and woman. We’re lucky. You will be too, in time.’
April was opening the back gate of the longhouse and Bryony followed. ‘Not according to Mum or half the village, and especially Old Dave, who all think I’m on a dusty shelf. I just haven’t found the right man, or perhaps it’s that he hasn’t found me. I suppose my overalls and filthy nails have a limited appeal, but it’s my job and without it I can’t keep my family.’ She gave a laugh but it was hollow.
They traipsed round the house to the front along the crazy paving path. April knocked on the old oak front door, and within seconds it opened. Mrs Sanderson was in the act of pulling on her leather gloves, and wore her usual tweed suit. How hot she must be, Bryony thought, as she prepared to launch into the catechism of Celia’s woes, but it was April who said, ‘We need to talk to you in your role as billeting officer.’
‘I’m just off out on my rounds, Mrs Cottrall. It’s best to make an appointment.’
‘Appointment be damned,’ April almost snarled.
Mrs Sanderson stopped, her foot poised over the lintel, registering shock. April gave her no chance to recover, but loudly and firmly said, ‘We have removed Celia Whatshername from Mrs Galloway. How could you even think of letting that awful woman have her? There are other homes in the neighbourhood, surely? What about your own road – not many evacuees here, but oh, let me see, they’re friends of yours, I believe. And why haven’t you offered us any evacuees? Combe Lodge has an attic that we prepared in readiness when war was declared. Some came, and then went when nothing happened. We have not been asked since.’
Bryony pulled April back, hushing her. ‘Mrs Sanderson, Celia is covered in bruises, unwashed, and not attending school. We really feel she must be rehoused.’ Though she was as angry as April, somehow she kept her voice level.
It was then that Mrs Sanderson collected herself, stepping back into her hall and adjusting her felt hat, her balance regained in more ways than one. ‘I find this all rather disturbing.’
‘So you should,’ muttered April.
‘You ask why I didn’t try Combe Lodge. Well, I did, fully aware that you have many bedrooms. It was your mother, and indeed your sister, Hannah, young Bryony, who told me very firmly that there was no room at the inn. Or rather, your mother insisted that she was too unwell to cope with children, and Hannah that she was too preoccupied with caring for your mother. Then they shut the door, much as I am about to do, now.’
Bryony felt rooted to the ground. ‘I can’t believe that. Where was I?’
‘As your sister advised me, Bryony, you were too busy swanning about in your aircraft to involve yourself in the day-to-day running of the house and its inhabitants.’
The walk home was muted, each of the women busy with her own thoughts. They collected Celia from the cottage, thanking Anne and Catherine and hoping that they were well. Anne smiled, touching Celia’s head. ‘Yes, not long now before we have our own little ones. We’ll be lucky if they’re as lovely as this young miss.’
Celia lifted her head and smiled. ‘Fanks for the biscuit, both of you.’
April and Bryony walked Celia back to the house, stopping to show the roses. Bryony pulled the different blooms down so that Celia could smell them more easily.
It was only when they were sitting around the kitchen table and Bryony was pouring home-made lemonade for the three of them that Celia said, ‘When do I go?’
April waited for Bryony, who said, ‘Never, Celia. You will be staying here, in that same bedroom, for as long as you wish. But you will be going to school, because we talked to the headmistress, and she is so looking forward to having you. There you will make lots of friends.’
Celia smiled, ‘I don’t mind about friends, but I like it here. I’m near the aeroplanes, and that man said he’d teach me to fly, when I’m older.’
‘Well, that’s sorted, then.’
Celia slurped her lemonade, then dragged her hand across her mouth. April winked at Bryony. Changes would have to be made, and what would happen when Hannah and her mother returned? Well, they’d just have to adjust because the house was big enough for even more. There was, after all, the whole of the attic as well as Celia’s existing room. It would be filled with those in need, for the duration.
Celia looked at Bryony, creeping her hand along the table to touch hers. ‘What happens if you go with that man to help fly them planes? Do I go somewhere else then?’
Bryony shook her head. ‘No, you will stay here with April, and between us all we will work it out.’
She and April stared at each other and nodded, because indeed the situation would be worked out. Bryony swallowed her outrage and confusion, because after all, she should have realised that there was something strange about the lack of child evacuees. It wasn’t just her mother and Hannah’s fault, it was hers, as head of the family, for she had allowed the situation to arise.
April came close, and whispered, ‘You’re not a mind-reader, and I didn’t know Mrs Sanderson had been here, either. We weren’t the ones to send her away and, after all, you opened Combe Lodge to Anne and Catherine.
Anne and Catherine were different: they were friends of Uncle Thomas and had come when their husbands had joined up. They had heard a rumour that the Germans took babies away from the mothers, to be brought up as Nazis. No one knew if it was true, but these two weren’t going to take the chance.
‘Anne and Catherine asked.’
‘Exactly,’ April said. ‘We were asked, and we didn’t refuse. We took evacuees in 1939 but they returned home. We will be asked again, and we will accept.’
She went to the sink and banged and crashed the pots.
Chapter Seven
26 June 1940
After tea, when they were sitting around the kitchen table, Bryony watched Eddie playing dominoes with Celia. He had hunted for the game and found it in the bottom of the dresser on the first day of his five-day leave. He had decided that the numbered tiles were one way of helping Celia with the grim business of getting her head around arithmetic. What he hadn’t bargained for was her quickness of mind, let alone her competitive spirit. It matched his, and he was being forced to concentrate just as hard as he would if he was bringing a Spitfire in to land. Bryony asked, ‘Are women ferry pilots allowed to fly Spitfires yet?’
‘Nope, and be quiet, let me concentrate.’
April laughed quietly as she sewed. Bryony returned to her plan for reassembling the Dragon Rapide engine. ‘When will they be allowed?’
‘Not sure, now do be quiet,’ he grunted. ‘I need to keep
on top of my game, for heaven’s sake, Bee.’
Celia shouted. ‘I’ve won, again. Again, Bee. I’ve won.’
Eddie groaned, leaning back in his chair. ‘You do know, of course, that even though Celia’s schooling has been so skimpy, she’s such a quick learner that she’ll have no problem. It’s her reading that needs help, but trust me, she’ll be working her way through the library before we know where we are.’
‘Come on, Uncle Eddie. Set ’em up again.’
Over the noise of their laughter, Bryony heard the ringing telephone. She shook her head at Eddie, who was doing as he was told and setting up. ‘You keep going with the serious stuff. If you’re being recalled, I’ll give you a yell.’ Celia was studying the tiles, her chin on her hands, her elbows on the table. Bryony pushed back her chair as he groaned, ‘You’re going to win again, you’re just too good, young lady. Now, will you count these dots on the domino tiles for me? I haven’t got my glasses on.’
‘You don’t wear glasses, Uncle Eddie. You just want me to count,’ Celia shrieked, laughing.
‘Too smart by half,’ Eddie said, grinning at April who was altering some dresses her WI friends had given her for Celia.
Bryony reached the telephone and picked up the receiver, wondering if it would be Adam, who was in Portsmouth with Eric, trying to get a piece of the Sunflower’s engine re-ground. Or it could be her uncle’s ferry pool, needing him. It was neither; it was Uncle Thomas, who sounded as bluff and hearty as ever. ‘So, how are you, my darling. Have you heard from the ATA?’
‘Yes, Uncle Thomas. I’m through but they don’t need me at the moment. Uncle Eddie says they’re still not taking on many women, but we’re busy enough here, one way or another.’ She hadn’t yet told them of Celia because the possible reaction of her mother and Hannah would cause total outrage to rise within her. But perhaps they had changed, perhaps they . . .