Always in my Heart

by Pam Weaver

  ‘Tom and I are on a farm,’ said Shirley, grateful to hear the teacher ringing the school bell so that she didn’t have to elaborate.

  Miss Lloyd wasn’t there to introduce them to the other teachers. Shirley was horrified to learn that she was back in Worthing teaching the rest of the school in some hall or other. How was she going to let Miss Lloyd know what had happened to them? If she couldn’t contact her, they’d be forced to sleep in that awful room with no proper door all winter! According to their new head teacher, the few Londoners who were left in Angmering were to be integrated with the pupils of Older’s School. It was obvious that everybody was thinking they were almost school leavers anyway, so what did it matter?

  They began their lessons with an air-raid drill. When the school bell rang, everybody had to get under their desks as quickly as possible and stay very still until the bell was rung a second time.

  ‘You won’t hear a bell when the real one comes,’ said the headmaster. ‘There will be an air-raid siren.’

  For most of the younger children, it was a little frightening, but for the pupils of Shirley’s age, it seemed a bit stupid. They didn’t really fit under the desks either.

  To start with, Shirley and Tom were together in the upper class, but it didn’t take long for Tom to be sent down a class or two. He was a bit upset at being in what he called the ‘babbies’ class’, but Shirley didn’t make a fuss because it did make life a little easier for him.

  On their way home on their first day, an old woman in one of the cottages in Swillage stood in her doorway and waved to them. Tom waved back, but Shirley stuck her nose in the air. She didn’t mean to be snooty, but she didn’t know anything about the woman and she might be drawn into telling her something she shouldn’t. Her mother always drummed into her to keep away from gossips. Although she and Tom never stopped to talk, the woman was there every day and funnily enough Shirley found herself looking forward to seeing her.

  Shirley’s new teacher was called Miss Smith and she took to her straight away. She wasn’t very old, probably in her early twenties. She had blonde hair, which she wore pinned back from her face with combs, and she had some nice clothes. There was an air of sadness about her and some of the girls said she looked like that because she’d been jilted by her boyfriend.

  Their very first assignment was to write an essay about their experiences during the holidays. For the local children, it meant writing about harvest time, when friends and neighbours gathered in the fields to bring in the crops. Others wrote about holidays with distant relatives or camping in the woods with their brothers and sisters. One girl had a week-long coach trip, and another boy had gone to a place called York to see his grandmother, perhaps for the last time. For the children of Hallsville School, it meant writing about their evacuation and the alien environment in which they were now living. Shirley wrote a vivid account of a boy who had a hard time understanding what was going on around him. Of course, she didn’t disclose that the boy she was writing about was her own brother (that would have been a sort of betrayal), but in thinking deeply about it, she began to appreciate how confusing and upsetting life could be for him. She’d reflected on how frustrating it must be to reach out and never be able to grasp the meaning of things, and yet paradoxically be so brilliantly clever at things that other people didn’t appreciate or understand. In doing so, everything that Tom struggled with suddenly came into sharp focus in her own mind. At the end of the exercise, Shirley had written twice as much as anyone else, but more importantly, not only had she enjoyed doing it but in a funny sort of way, it made her feel a lot better.

  Tom was never one for showing affection, but that afternoon as they walked back to the farm, he’d let her slip her arm though his and hug him for a couple of seconds.

  Gilbert Oliver stared out over the water. He hated being here and yet there was something within him that drew him back again and again. Patching Pond, which fed a tributary of the River Arun, was quite large and was famed for its multitude of fish. People swam in the water, and in his grandfather’s day, they had even held duck races on what they called Pond Days. Just down the road was the Horse & Groom, a popular local inn, where the men would have a couple of jars of beer before making their way home to the villages of Patching, Clapham and Angmering. The whole experience made it a day to remember. Pond Days were long gone, but the pond itself still entertained fishermen, and the locals enjoyed walking round it as they watched the ducks. It was an oasis in the middle of miles of farmland where moorhens and coots scratched around the muddy banks. It was an idyll, but for Gilbert it held a dark secret.

  Every time he came here, he was taken back in time to the day Elizabeth died. He would go over and over the event in his head and the things they said to each other. He remembered the cold, the water swirling round his thighs as he waded in. He remembered her screams and the way her arms flailed in a frantic attempt to stop herself from sinking. He remembered the heaviness of her poor dead body as he carried her out of the water and the sound of running feet as the people from down the hill came to the rescue. He remembered the prayers he’d said as they tried to revive her and gave an involuntary shudder. He’d been so angry. Perhaps he should never have married her. He knew farming was hard work and that she wasn’t cut out for the life right from the start. That Shirley reminded him of her: headstrong and digging her heels in to get her own way. He thrust his hands into his pockets. He’d been a damned fool. He had hoped he could persuade Elizabeth that everything would be all right, but she didn’t believe him. All he’d ever wanted was to keep the farm, and he would have moved heaven and earth to make her stay here. He stared out over the water for one last time.

  ‘I will make it work this time,’ he said under his breath. ‘You wait and see. I’m not beaten yet, girl. It’ll all come to me in the end.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Dear Florrie,

  Just a line or two to let you know that everything is going well with the shop. We still have just as many customers, even though it’s very quiet around here. I really miss the sound of children’s voices, especially the little gaggle of girls who used to play hopscotch on the corner of Forty-Acre Lane and Roscoe Street. St Luke’s has stopped the Sunday school for the time being in case of bombing. No sign of the Germans, but we have been busy putting brown-paper strips over all the windows.

  You probably don’t know that Len Greene signed up under the National Service Act. He read in the paper that men up to the age of forty-one are allowed to go and he said he didn’t want to leave it too late and miss the chance of doing his bit.

  They’re saying petrol is to be rationed by the end of the month.

  Soon after you left, they closed all the cinemas. It said in the paper that they were worried that if a bomb fell, it would mean a lot of people getting killed. They stopped all the football matches too. It was a miserable time. I really missed going to the Odeon. It was my only treat with my Raymond away. I wasn’t the only one. People complained and by the middle of September, they’d changed their minds. A good job too, if you ask me. We have to have a bit of fun in life, and so long as we know where the air-raid shelters are, where’s the harm?

  Shall I send you your ID card when it comes? My Raymond has gone back to sea. I try not to think about it, but they are saying that once it gets going, the merchant ships will be targeted as well. Ken is somewhere at sea in the Royal Navy. He writes, but he’s not allowed to say where he is. We have to be so careful not to say anything that might be somehow passed on to the enemy. I don’t know what the world is coming to.

  Still, it’s not all doom and gloom. Rhona Parry had a little baby boy. He’s a dear little chap with pretty blond hair just like his daddy. Chas is hoping to come home on leave soon to see him, but so that he doesn’t miss out, Rhona has taken the baby to the photographer’s. She’s got some lovely photographs. Of course, it’s not the same as seeing the baby in the flesh, but at least Chas knows what his son looks like.

 
Doreen sends her love. Her mother wants to get out of London, so she’s going to stay with her sister in Coventry. It’ll be much safer than being in the capital. Doreen is refusing to go with her. She says her livelihood is here. Just between you and me, with Mrs Kennedy out of the way, I think she will join the WVS, and good luck to her, I say.

  The takings are about the same. I’ve put them in the bank, less my wages, like you said.

  Keep your pecker up.

  All my love,

  Betty

  PS I hope you got the postcard Shirley sent. So far that’s the only one she’s posted. Still, I suppose no news is good news.

  * * *

  When Shirley and Tom arrived in Angmering, the boys in the village found a new target for their bullying. It didn’t take long for them to realize that for all his size and strength, Tom Jenkins was a bit of a pussy cat. They did all the usual things, like snatching his lunchbox, ‘accidentally’ bumping into him and calling him names, but after a while that became boring. Of course, they had to pick on Tom when Shirley wasn’t around. Petite as she was, she was a firebrand when it came to protecting her brother. A couple of times, one of his tormentors left it a bit late to run and came face to face with her. She didn’t have to do much – just a look was enough to send them scurrying.

  As it turned out, being in the lower class was good for Tom. Because everything was at a slower pace and he’d been this way before, he made steady progress with his reading. They had been in Angmering just about two months when he managed to read a whole book for the first time in his life. Called The Beacon Infant Readers Book Five, it had a few illustrations, and the key words were at the front of each story. They were shortened versions of fables and fairy tales like the stories of King Midas, Rumpelstiltskin and David and Goliath, but his favourite was ‘The Bell of Atri’. In it, a wise king placed a bell within reach of every man, woman and child in his kingdom. To get justice, they just had to ring the bell. When a poor abandoned and starving horse pulled the rope, thinking it was food, and rang the bell, the villagers came running. The king gave the faithful old horse justice by making his owner give him fresh hay and a warm stable. Tom hated the thought of any living creature being ill treated, so he read that one over and over again.

  Of course, he still wanted to hear Shirley’s stories and so occasionally she would retell ‘The Birthday Thief’.

  ‘The children in the story are a bit like us,’ he said one day. ‘They want to go back home, but they are trapped by the Birthday Thief, aren’t they?’

  ‘I suppose they are,’ said Shirley, ‘but it’s not quite the same. You and I still have our birthdays.’

  ‘Tell me about when they found the cake,’ said Tom.

  ‘It was like a big white tower,’ said Shirley. ‘It stood about sixty feet high and had ladders propped against it. Down below, the children were pushing trucks full of white stuff.’

  ‘That’s the icing,’ said Tom, his eyes glistening with excitement.

  Shirley nodded. ‘Next to the cake,’ she went on, ‘he saw some crystal medallions hanging on hooks. Each one had a name on it. Billy ran up to the platform, but as soon as he put his foot on it, an ear-piercing alarm went off. Weee-o, weee-o.’

  Tom would have her tell the story over and over again, but now that he could read for himself, she wanted him to practise his newly found skill. She remembered that there were some books upstairs in that lovely room they’d been shown when they’d first come to the farm. She knew it was forbidden, but if she was careful not to get caught, and they looked after whatever they took, no one need ever know. Shirley planned to borrow a book at the earliest opportunity.

  ‘Shirley,’ Miss Smith said one day as everybody was leaving for home, ‘would you mind staying behind for a minute or two?’

  As she waited for everyone to go, Shirley wondered what it was all about. She knew she wasn’t in trouble. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but her teacher looked very serious. While she waited, Shirley admired her striking navy and white striped blouse. She was sure she’d seen it a couple of weeks before as a dress, but it had been cut down and put with a navy skirt. Miss Smith had real flare because she had added a red silk scarf, which she’d tied as an artist’s bow at the neck under the wide white collar. Once the classroom was empty, Miss Smith opened her drawer and took out Shirley’s essay.

  ‘This is very good, Shirley,’ she said, indicating that she should sit down, ‘and I should like you to think about something.’

  Shirley lowered herself into a chair.

  ‘Every year,’ Miss Smith went on, ‘the Duke of Northumberland sponsors an essay competition for the under-sixteens. It brings in funds for the RNLI – that’s the lifeboats, you know. I think your story would be a worthy entry.’

  Shirley blinked. How exciting. Nobody had ever said anything like that about her work before.

  ‘Would you agree to my sending it in?’

  Shirley didn’t have to think about it. ‘Yes, please.’

  Miss Smith nodded and put the essay back into her drawer. ‘Have you given any thought as to what you would like to do when you leave school?’

  The answer was no. Shirley knew Mum wanted them both to stay on at school for as long as possible. If she could have her way, she would have left the previous July, but Mum wanted them to stay until they were both sixteen. Some of her friends had left school as early as fourteen, and most of the others left in the summer. They had found jobs, one as a waitress in a small cafe just round the corner from the shop back home, and the other worked in the local greengrocer’s. Their wages were a pittance, but at least they had their own money. That’s why it galled Shirley so much that her mother wouldn’t even let her do a paper round. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Shop work, I suppose.’

  Miss Smith sighed. ‘There’s nothing wrong with shop work,’ she said, ‘but I think you are perfectly capable of greater things.’

  Shirley blinked.

  ‘You are good with the little ones,’ her teacher went on. ‘They relate to you.’ She leaned forward. ‘Shirley, I want you to think about training to be a teacher.’

  It sounded wonderful, but Shirley knew Mum didn’t have that kind of money. Florrie hadn’t exactly told her the details about her illness, so Shirley had no idea how much her mother’s treatment might cost, but she’d already been away for just about six weeks, and even that wouldn’t be cheap. She really couldn’t imagine Mum paying for teacher-training college as well. But she didn’t mention the money. Mum had drummed it into her that she should never talk about a lack of money or that she couldn’t afford something. ‘We’re not a charity case,’ Florrie would say. ‘We pay our own way.’ (Even if they couldn’t.) Which was why Shirley was pretty sure that teacher-training college would be out of the question.

  Shirley shook her head. ‘I don’t—’ she began.

  Miss Smith put up her hand to silence her. ‘Before you make up your mind, I’m suggesting that we put you up for a scholarship. You would take an exam, which is not easy, so you will have to work hard, but if you pass, all your expenses would be taken care of.’

  Shirley’s mouth fell open. She tried to say something, but Miss Smith interrupted her again. ‘Don’t tell me now, Shirley. Go away and think about it. Write and ask your mother what she thinks.’

  Shirley was rooted to the spot. Miss Smith began to collect her things together. ‘That’s all, Shirley. You can go now.’

  She walked out of the classroom in a dream. Could she really be a teacher one day? Outside in the playground, she looked around for Tom. He was usually sitting on the wall near Church Lane that ran adjacent to the school, waiting for her, but today the wall was empty. She called his name a couple of times. Where was he? Surely he wouldn’t have decided to walk home alone? It wasn’t that he would get lost, but he knew Mum had said he had to stay with her at all times.

  ‘Down the hole, down the hole . . .’ she could hear the boys chanting somewhere. She followed the sound unti
l she reached the centre of the village. Across the triangle beyond the war memorial, she could see a group of boys gathered in the road. One boy was holding her brother’s coat. Shirley sprinted across the road to see what they were doing.

  ‘Where’s Tom?’ she demanded. ‘What have you done with my brother?’

  The boys pulled back. ‘Go away,’ said one. ‘Girls aren’t allowed.’

  She could see now that they had the cover off some sort of large drain in the road. She supposed it was to funnel excess water coming down the hill and keep it away from the centre of the village. One of the boys, bent right over, was inside the drain egging someone on.

  ‘Is my brother in there?’ Shirley demanded.

  ‘Anyone who wants to be in our gang has to walk to the end of the culvert,’ said another boy. ‘It’s fairly easy, although it makes your back ache.’ He demonstrated how they had to walk. Shirley was horrified.

  ‘It comes out by the village hall, dunnit, Kev,’ said another boy.

  ‘My brother is much taller than you lot,’ Shirley said angrily. ‘If you have to bend over, he’ll be bent double.’

  It was clear from the expressions on their faces that they hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘He can always go on his hands and knees,’ said Kev.

  ‘It’s all slimy and dirty down there,’ Shirley protested. She pulled the boy away from the mouth of the drain and went inside a little way. ‘Tom, you don’t have to do this. Come out of there.’

  Some of the boys began to drift away. ‘Sissy,’ Kev muttered, and that’s when Shirley saw red. She spun round and glared at him, pushing her face really close to his. ‘No, I’ll tell you what this is,’ she spat. ‘You’re a load of bullies. You can see he doesn’t understand, so you pick on him. You haven’t got the guts to stand up to someone who is your equal.’

  The landlord and another man came out of the Red Lion. He was a big man with a bald head and tattoos on his arms. The other man was nice-looking, but he wore a grubby shirt, and the braces on his trousers were frayed.