by Pam Weaver
‘No, no, it’s quite all right.’
‘I wish I could be sure she and Tom are happy,’ said Florrie, holding the precious card to her chest.
Doreen looked thoughtful. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘With Mother gone, I’ve discovered that I have quite a bit of money coming in. It seems she was keeping an awful lot of it for herself and I never knew.’ Florrie went to say something, but Doreen waved her hand. ‘I know, I know. She’s a mean old cow, but she’s still my mother. Anyway, while I still can, why don’t I go to Worthing to see Shirley and Tom for myself, and then it’ll put your mind at rest?’
Florrie clamped her hand across her mouth. ‘Oh, Doreen, would you?’
‘Why not?’ said Doreen. ‘I could do with a few more days out, and a little excursion to the seaside would be just the thing.’
Florrie asked her to reach for her handbag in the locker beside the bed. She handed Doreen a pound note. ‘Would you give this to Shirley? Tell her to treat herself to something and to give Tom some too.’
‘Of course,’ said Doreen. They both relaxed. ‘Why do you want all this paper, anyway?’ she added as her foot accidentally knocked against the holdall she’d shoved under the bed.
Florrie showed her a paper rose.
‘That’s amazing,’ said Doreen, admiring it from all sides.
‘You can have that one,’ said Florrie.
‘Are you sure?’ Doreen put it carefully in her bag. ‘Anyway, how are you doing, Florrie? Are you getting any better?’
‘I had my lung collapsed when I came here,’ said Florrie. ‘They say if they rest it, it gets better more quickly. That was just over two months ago. The doctor is going to see how I am next week and then I’ll have another X-ray.’
Doreen nodded sagely. ‘What then?’
Florrie shrugged. She wasn’t sure herself. She’d never really asked. ‘If it’s healed, I suppose I can get up.’
‘That’ll be nice,’ said Doreen. ‘You’ll be able to get out for some fresh air.’
‘Oh, believe you me,’ Florrie chuckled, ‘I have plenty of that!’
Nobody at the farm spoke of the incident concerning the man from the Ministry of Agriculture, but his visit seemed to have changed Mr Oliver’s attitude. He became more morose and moody. Nothing pleased him any more. If he had been difficult before, he was even more so now.
Each morning, Mr Oliver would walk to the gate to collect the post from the postman, rather than let him leave it in the covered enamel pail that was left on the other side of the gate for the purpose. Some time ago, the postman had made it clear that he wouldn’t come to the house so long as the dog was there. Mr Oliver often teased the animal or lashed out a kick when he wasn’t looking. That sort of treatment and the fact that he kept it short of food contributed to the dog’s vicious behaviour. Both Shirley and Tom hated to see what was happening to it, and Tom often snuck it extra food.
While she was doing the washing-up, Shirley could see Mr Oliver searching through the envelopes the postman had given him. Sometimes he would shout out loud and rip one to shreds without even opening it, before coming back to the house. When they ate their meals together, he would release a tirade of abuse towards government officials using language Shirley and Tom had never heard before.
‘What gives them the right to come here and tell me how to run my farm?’ he’d rant. ‘Me, what’s done it all me life. They’re all bloody communists, I tell you.’
‘What’s a communist?’ Shirley asked Janet when Mr Oliver had gone out to the fields.
Janet shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but he’s terrified they’ll take the farm off him.’
‘Why would anyone want to do that?’
‘We’re at war, Shirley,’ said Janet. ‘The country needs to be fed. Just look around you. Even you and I can see where improvements can be made, but will he do it? Will he heck.’
Shirley was slightly surprised. Janet’s outburst was mild enough, but it was the first time she’d ever heard her voice an opinion on anything, let alone express her disapproval of her husband’s decisions. Janet was right, of course. Mr Oliver was pig-headed. ‘Can’t you say something?’
Janet gave her a withering glance. ‘Do you really think he’d listen to me?’
The answer, of course, was no. Mr Oliver only did what Mr Oliver wanted.
CHAPTER 10
The fact that it was nearly Christmas brought a little light relief to everybody in the country. The First Lord of the Admiralty, Mr Winston Churchill, had promised that if they survived the winter without any serious blow, Britain would have gained the first campaign. Husbands, fathers, brothers, nephews and grandsons might be abroad, but thus far there had been little in the way of skirmishes. Half the civilized world had mobilized when Hitler had overrun Poland and instigated war, and he was now on the back foot and talking of peace, but Churchill refused to back down and the whole of the British Empire was rallying to the cause with even greater conviction.
In Angmering, the war hadn’t made a great deal of difference to everyday life, and preparations were well under way for a Christmas pageant in the village hall. Called Kings and Queens of England, it was a celebration of Christmas through history. Rehearsals had been taking place since the beginning of November, and Shirley was very excited to have been offered the leading role as Good Queen Bess. It meant learning a lot of lines and she soon found that she was stretched to the limit. Miss Smith had already given her extra work in preparation for the scholarship examination, which she would take next Easter, and of course there was no let-up in the chores she had to do on the farm. Tom took on a few extra things for her, like mucking out the hen house and collecting the eggs, but Mr Oliver still grumbled and complained if he saw her studying. When he’d heard that the pageant was going to take up two days – Thursday for the dress rehearsal and then Saturday evening for the performance – Mr Oliver was furious and stomped off in a huff.
Finding a place to work became a problem as well. Shirley couldn’t possibly do it in her bedroom. There was no table and no heating either, so Janet cleared a place on the kitchen table. Mr Oliver would put the radio on just to annoy her, but before long Shirley learned how to shut out distracting noises. Occasionally, although deep in thought, she would look up.
‘What is that thing?’ she asked Janet one evening when they were alone. Mr Oliver had gone to the pub, and Tom was with his beloved horses, Darby and Joan. Shirley pointed to the large metal square with the chain wrapped round it that was over the mantelpiece.
Janet shuddered. ‘It’s a mantrap.’
‘A mantrap!’
‘You put it on the ground and cover it with leaves,’ said Janet. ‘Then when a poacher comes along and puts his foot on the plate, it snaps shut. It’s self-locking and you can’t get out until someone gets the key.’
‘That’s horrible,’ cried Shirley.
‘They never use them now,’ said Janet. ‘It’s illegal. That one dates from early Victorian times apparently.’
‘Not my choice of ornament,’ Shirley remarked stoutly.
Janet would often sit by the hearth knitting or sewing for the baby while Shirley did her homework. She was ‘as big as a house’ now (her own joke), so Shirley teasingly asked her if she had the pram in there as well. They’d both enjoyed the laugh, but it reminded Shirley that Janet was ill prepared for her baby. Where was the pram? Where was the cot? Come to that, where exactly was Janet going to have her baby? Shirley didn’t like to ask such personal questions directly, but all her hints were ignored.
Then one day, the old woman in Swillage who had waved to them since they’d first arrived at the farm stopped her and asked Shirley and Tom to come inside her cottage. Shirley wasn’t too keen. The woman and her husband looked a little dishevelled, and, Shirley thought, she’d probably go on and on for hours when Shirley had other things she’d rather be doing. She made an excuse that they couldn’t stop, but the old woman insisted that she only wanted them to take something bac
k to the farm for Janet. Shirley waited impatiently by the gate while Tom went inside. When he came out, he was carrying an old-fashioned rocking crib and some neatly folded bed linen.
‘Is she a relative of yours?’ Shirley asked Janet when Tom had put the crib by the fireside.
Janet shook her head. ‘Everybody calls her “Granny Roberts”,’ she said. ‘Sometimes when you’re at school, I go and sit with them.’
Shirley raised a disparaging eyebrow.
‘They are old and they are lonely,’ said Janet irritably. ‘One day, you might be like that yourself.’
Shirley felt ashamed. Janet was being kind, and by contrast, she was behaving like a selfish little madam. Granny Roberts’s cottage was humble and run-down probably because she and Mr Roberts were old and infirm and not able to do things the way they used to. Janet hadn’t said so in so many words, but she was right. Shirley had no right to look down her nose at them.
‘Sorry,’ she said, and resolved to be a bit more friendly in the future.
In November, the senselessness of war had been brought into sharp focus. A lieutenant commander called Gerald Molsom, who had lived in the village, was killed in action. Shirley didn’t know him, but apparently he had lived in the Pigeon House, a two-storey seventeenth-century timber-framed house on the north side of The Street in Angmering. Second-in-command and a gunnery officer, he was on HMS Rawalpindi, an armed merchant ship, when she was sunk by the German battleships Scharnhorst and Gneisenau while on patrol in the area around Iceland. The whole village was deeply affected. He was one of their own and the villagers felt a mixture of anger, tragic loss and pride. A special service was to be held in St Margaret’s and the whole school was required to attend. Tom took it in his stride, but for Shirley, it was a sobering occasion. Up until now, war had been just a word, something that had separated them from their mother and all that was familiar. Now she knew it took lives as well.
Things on the farm quietened down from the beginning of December, but because of the unchanging routine, the days seemed to merge into one another. Mr Oliver still went to meet the postman at the gate, but no one took much notice now. Shirley was a bit surprised that she still hadn’t had a letter from her mother. She had definitely put the address on that last card, but nothing had appeared on the kitchen table. It distressed her, but she made up her mind to send another postcard in time for Christmas. She wouldn’t complain. Perhaps her mother was too ill to write.
Life for Shirley was doing her homework and her work. She had no money to go to the pictures, even though Bobbi, Gwen and Hazel had asked her time and again. She even had the embarrassment of having to ask Janet for some more bunnies when her period came. Her mother had given her a couple of packets of sanitary towels, but they were quickly used up. Shirley’s only relaxation was reading. By now, she had borrowed several books from Elizabeth’s room and devoured them. She treated them as if they were priceless heirlooms, never turning down the corners of the page as a bookmark, or leaving them in a place where they might get damaged. Judging by the selection in the bookcase, Elizabeth had a wide and varied taste in books, and Shirley loved every single one of them.
One day in December, Gilbert Oliver watched Shirley and Tom setting off for school. He’d wait a little longer; then Janet would head off for Granny Roberts’s place. She thought he didn’t know she went there, but he’d seen her sneaking off to their house weeks ago. Not much got past him. Still, mustn’t grumble. She’d been a good investment. She’d kept house for him, and she’d worked hard in the beginning. She still did as much as her condition allowed. He wasn’t sure how things would work out once the nipper came, but if she knew what was good for her, Janet would do everything she could to keep a roof over both of their heads.
The weather was getting a lot colder. He had a feeling in his bones that they were in for a hard winter. They’d already had a few snow flurries; nothing much – it didn’t settle – but it wasn’t even Christmas yet. This side of the Downs, they didn’t usually get much snow. In places beyond Brighton and Crawley, the snow was often feet-deep, and as coal was to be limited to two tons a year per household this year, they’d have to be a bit more careful. The kitchen range was hungry for fuel, but if the worst came to the worst, there was plenty of dead wood lying around the farm.
As soon as he saw Janet waddling down the hill, Gilbert took two envelopes out of his pocket; then he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on the range. He wanted some privacy with this post. Turning the first envelope over in his hands, he studied the handwriting on the front. It was addressed to Mr and Mrs Oliver. He’d leave that one for a minute. First, he’d steam the other one open, the one addressed to Miss S. Jenkins and Master T. Jenkins.
My dearest Shirley and Tom, he read.
It was lovely to get your card. I am doing well and the doctor is pleased with my progress. I am so glad you are enjoying life on a farm, Tom. You always did love animals. How wonderful that your teacher is giving you a chance for a scholarship, Shirley. Make the most of this opportunity, won’t you, dear? Do your best.
I have enclosed a postal order for you to buy Mr and Mrs Oliver something for Christmas. Tell them I am very grateful for their kindness.
All my love,
Mum
Gilbert snorted. A scholarship indeed. Who did the silly mare think she was? And what a waste of money. All that education for a girl who would be a married woman before she was twenty. Gilbert slipped the postal order into his pocket. Very nice too, he thought. He lifted the lid of the range and threw the letter into the fire. He would have given it to them if their mother hadn’t mentioned the postal order. It was only three pounds, but he wasn’t about to share it with anyone.
He didn’t bother to steam open the other one; after all, it was addressed to him.
Dear Mr and Mrs Oliver,
I am a friend of Mrs Florrie Jenkins, Shirley and Tom’s mother. Mrs Jenkins is indisposed in hospital at the moment, so she has asked me to come and see the children before Christmas. I intend to travel from London on the train and would be grateful if you would tell me which station to come to and what day would be the most convenient.
I’m afraid I can’t stay long, two hours at the most, but it would be so good to see the children again. Please contact me at the above address.
Yours sincerely,
Doreen Kennedy (Miss)
Gilbert scowled. Damn and blast it. Visitors from London were the last thing he wanted.
Florrie felt more than a little nervous. She’d waited for this day for so long, and now at long last Nurse Baxter came trundling down the ward with the wooden wheelchair. Florrie pulled her dressing gown tightly round her body and sat down. Swathed in blankets to keep the cold at bay as she was wheeled from one end of the complex to the other, she set off from the ward with a chorus of ‘Good luck, love’ and ‘All the best, Florrie’ from her fellow patients, so just for a lark, she waved and nodded like the king on one of his royal processions.
The ground outside was frosty, but Nurse Baxter walked confidently on the paths strewn with sand. The flower beds were empty now. The riot of colour that had greeted Florrie when she first arrived at the sanatorium was long gone. A few dried-up old brown leaves poked out of the soil, but that was it. Winter was tightening its grip.
Nurse Baxter wheeled her to the treatment room, where Dr Scott was waiting. First, she had to stand on the scales. She had lost more than two stone. How ironic. She had always wanted to be slimmer, but faced with her own stick-like limbs and skinny body reflected on the stainless-steel strip on the door, she was not a pretty sight. There were no mirrors on the ward. The hospital staff knew only too well how depressing it could be to see yourself, but when Florrie looked at the gaunt faces of those around her, she supposed she didn’t look much better.
‘Well, Florrie,’ said Dr Scott as she was wheeled back into the treatment room, ‘today I am going to examine your lung and then we’ll take another X-ray. I’m hoping that th
ere will be a significant change and then we can move on to the next stage of your recovery. That would be a nice Christmas present, wouldn’t it?’
Florrie smiled cheerfully. She felt encouraged. Dr Scott was a cautious man. He wouldn’t say something unless he was reasonably confident she would be all right. Wrapped up in blankets again, she was wheeled by Nurse Baxter to the X-ray department. Not so far this time, and they didn’t have to go outside, but Florrie began to shiver and started to feel a bit peculiar as she waited her turn. Feeling so grotty, it was hard to keep still for the X-ray, but about an hour later, she was back with the doctor again.
His expression said it all. Florrie’s heart sank.
‘I’m sorry, Florrie. The shadow has decreased but not nearly as much as I had hoped.’
She stared at him hopelessly. What did that mean? Was he going to give up on the treatment? Was she going to be left to die?
‘I think it best if we deflate the lung again and bring you back in the spring.’
She felt a mixture of abject misery – spring was months away – and relief. At least he hadn’t given up on her. She was trembling now. Dr Scott looked up at the nurse. ‘I’m not going to do it right away. She’s had enough. She looks exhausted. Bring her back in a day or so for the treatment.’
How she stayed upright in the chair Florrie never knew. Her head was spinning, and every time she coughed her chest felt like it was on fire. Never had she been more grateful to see her bed and to crawl between the sheets.
The full dress rehearsal was on Thursday. Shirley was up early to get all her chores done, and then she and Tom raced to school. She had lessons in the morning, but in the afternoon she was in the village hall. Her costume was amazing. Fashioned using material from some old damask curtains and decorated with glass beads, Shirley looked every inch the queen. The dress smelled musty, but that was only because the curtains were ages old. She still looked regal and important. Shirley had folded several sheets of fairly stiff paper into fans, which the wardrobe mistress had sewn together to make a ruff. Sir Walter Raleigh (a boy who had tried to terrorize Tom when they’d first arrived in the village) bowed low, and as he stood up, she knew he wouldn’t fail to notice the smirk on her lips. If this was for real, she would have gladly sent him to the Tower for life for the way he’d treated her brother.