Always in my Heart

by Pam Weaver

  Shirley went to get Granny Roberts a cup of tea. When she came back to her, the old lady motioned her to sit down beside her.

  ‘Leave Janet to enjoy herself,’ she whispered. ‘Young girl like that needs to get out more.’

  Shirley nodded. Granny Roberts was right. Janet was only young and yet she seldom left the farm. Shirley still couldn’t help wondering why on earth she had married a middle-aged man like Mr Oliver. ‘Did you know Mr Oliver’s first wife?’ she blurted out.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Granny Roberts. ‘A lovely girl. He led her a dog’s life and yet,’ she added, looking thoughtful, ‘he was very upset when she died, throwing hisself over the coffin like a man demented.’

  Shirley was surprised. Mr Oliver didn’t seem the sort of man who was given to emotion.

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She drowned,’ said Granny Roberts with a sigh. ‘In Patching Pond.’

  Shirley was shocked.

  ‘At the time, everyone felt for him,’ Granny Roberts went on. ‘He looked like a broken man at her funeral, but then he up and marries Janet less than six months later.’

  ‘I noticed some of the villagers haven’t been very nice to her,’ Shirley remarked.

  ‘It was all too quick for some,’ said Granny Roberts, ‘but it suited them both. She needed a home, and he wanted a skivvy. Course, if they that gossip knew the truth of the matter, they wouldn’t be so hard on her.’

  ‘So why don’t you tell them?’ cried Shirley. ‘Explain . . .’

  Granny Roberts frowned. ‘That’s up to Janet. It’s nothing to do with me, and I’ve never been one to talk about folks behind their backs.’

  Someone called her name and Shirley was surprised to see Miss Lloyd had been in the audience. Her former teacher was very complimentary about her performance and enquired about Tom. Shirley introduced her to Janet and they shook hands. Now was Shirley’s chance to complain about their living conditions, but somehow the words stuck in her throat and the moment was lost as soon as Gwen Knox appeared from the back of the stage. Miss Lloyd was lavish in her praise of Gwen’s singing.

  ‘Who would have thought it?’ she cried. ‘You were absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘I’ve been asked to sing in a dance band,’ said Gwen. ‘I’m learning that new song Vera Lynn sings, “We’ll Meet Again”. Have you heard it? It’s lovely.’

  ‘Make sure you have a grown-up with you when you sing with the dance band,’ Miss Lloyd cautioned.

  Gwen looked slightly crestfallen at the suggestion, but promised that she would and Miss Lloyd moved on.

  Granny Roberts decided to go home, saying she didn’t want to leave her husband, Seth, for too long on his own, but everybody else stayed for cups of tea and mince pies before setting off for home. The night was cold, but the air was clear and there was a bright moon. Janet had a torch, anyway. She and Shirley linked arms and they sang as they went, with Tom tagging along behind. Their choice of song was anything from the Christmas carol ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’ to the most popular song of the moment, ‘Run, Rabbit, Run’. As they came to Swillage, Granny Roberts’s cottage was shrouded in darkness, but Janet called, ‘Night, Granny,’ and a thin, wavery voice from inside called, ‘Goodnight, dear.’

  Shirley hugged Janet’s arm tighter. She felt happier than she had done in a long time. All the hardship of living with an irascible old man like Mr Oliver melted away. Shirley still missed Mum, but she’d had a wonderful evening, and being with Janet felt almost as good as being with family. Her brother was happy too. She glanced behind to see him peering into the hedgerow at something that had obviously caught his eye. He loved the peace and quiet of the countryside, and he loved being with the livestock. Funny how things turn out. If the nation hadn’t gone to war, most likely Tom would never have had that experience.

  The farmhouse was in darkness. Everyone had to observe the blackout, and it was especially important in this area. There were RAF bases being set up all around: Tangmere, Westhampnett, Shoreham and Ford were only a few miles away in either direction. As they walked in, Mr Oliver was sitting by the fire. He looked up as they took off their coats, and Janet put the kettle on the range.

  ‘So you decided to come back, then,’ he said sourly. It was obvious that he’d been drinking. His eyes were glazed, and every now and then he hiccupped. A half-empty bottle of Vat 69 whisky stood on the table beside his chair, and he had an empty glass in his hand.

  Janet ignored him. Turning to Shirley, she said, ‘Would you two like a hot-water bottle?’

  Shirley nodded and went to fetch them.

  ‘I’m talking to you, you ignorant bitch,’ said Mr Oliver.

  Shirley was already halfway down the corridor, but she heard Janet say, ‘You’re drunk.’

  Shirley snatched up the stone hot-water bottles and made her way back to the kitchen. When she got there, Mr Oliver was on his feet and swaying. ‘You should have been home hours ago.’

  Janet, defiant, stood with her chin jutted out slightly. ‘Don’t you tell me what to do,’ she challenged him.

  ‘I bloody well will,’ he retorted. ‘You’re my wife.’ He swung at her, but Janet ducked out of the way. Unfortunately, she was caught off balance and toppled backwards. Mr Oliver lunged towards her again, but Tom pushed himself between them. ‘Leave her alone!’

  Mr Oliver’s blow landed on the top of Tom’s arm. Tom squeezed his eyes shut and winced. ‘You girt ninny,’ Mr Oliver sneered. ‘Look at you cowering away. You wants to stand up and be a man for once.’

  Janet had fallen against the arm of the chair and was struggling to right herself. Shirley put the water bottles on the table and ran to her aid.

  ‘He’s more of a man than you’ll ever be, Gilbert Oliver,’ said Janet as Shirley helped her upright. ‘What sort of man hits a pregnant woman?’

  Mr Oliver wobbled unsteadily for a few seconds and then punched her full in the face. Shirley cried out in alarm as Janet was propelled backwards and fell heavily in the chair. Tom was rooted to the spot, but Shirley was at her friend’s side in an instant, trying to assess the damage.

  ‘You two, get to bed,’ Mr Oliver roared. ‘Go on – get out of here.’

  Tom scurried away, but Shirley chose to stay. There was blood coming from Janet’s nose. She had put her handkerchief against it to stem the flow, but Shirley remembered that once, when she had a nosebleed, her mother had put cold water on the bridge of her nose to stop it. She hurried to wet the end of the tea towel under the cold-water tap and handed it to Janet. All at once, Mr Oliver was looming over her and grabbing her arm. ‘I told you to get to bed!’

  Shirley was torn. She was terrified of him, but she didn’t want to leave her heavily pregnant friend to his drunken rage.

  ‘Go on, Shirley,’ Janet said quietly. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Still holding her arm, Mr Oliver propelled Shirley towards the door. ‘And keep out of Elizabeth’s room,’ he snarled.

  ‘Elizabeth’s room?’ Shirley said indignantly.

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been in there,’ Mr Oliver cried. ‘I don’t want nobody touching her things, d’you hear me? Not her books nor anything!’ Then pushing her out of the kitchen, he slammed the door behind her.

  Shirley waited in the cold corridor listening, but apart from the clink of bottle against glass, there was no other sound. Eventually, she heard low voices.

  ‘I never should have done this,’ Mr Oliver said.

  ‘I know you think you can do what you like with me,’ said Janet, ‘but lay a hand on me once more and I promise you I shan’t be here in the morning.’

  Shirley heard Mr Oliver scoff. ‘You’ve got too much to lose, my girl.’

  Shirley heard the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. ‘And you’ve got a lot more,’ said Janet defiantly.

  Miserably Shirley made her way back to her bedroom, where Tom was already in his bed.

  ‘He shouldn’t have hit her like that, should he, Shirl?’ he sa
id.

  ‘No,’ she said. She undressed behind the blanket wall and switched off the light.

  ‘Tell me the story, Shirl.’ Tom hadn’t asked for the story for weeks, but now he sounded like a frightened child again. ‘Tell me about the Birthday Thief.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Shirley woke as someone shook her arm. She turned, half expecting to see Tom wanting her to give him the torch because he needed to go to the toilet. Instead, she was surprised to see Janet, her hair dishevelled and her face contorted, standing beside her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Shirley, sitting up.

  Janet was squeezing her eyes shut and blowing out her cheeks, and it was a couple of seconds before she could speak. ‘The baby,’ she said breathlessly. ‘It’s coming.’

  Shirley was horrified. The baby! What was Janet expecting her to do? She’d never seen anyone having a baby before. In fact, the smallest baby she’d ever seen was little Thelma Wilson, and she had been two weeks old! Shirley pulled on her coat, which was at the bottom of the bed covering her freezing feet. Tom was awake now as well. Janet held her belly and moaned.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be lying down?’ Shirley asked.

  Janet nodded. ‘I’ll go back to bed in a minute. Can you get Granny Roberts for me?’

  ‘What about a midwife?’ said Shirley.

  ‘He wouldn’t let me have one,’ said Janet. ‘Get Granny Roberts.’

  ‘Tom will go, won’t you, Tom?’ said Shirley. ‘I’ll stay with you.’

  Tom was already putting his clothes on as Shirley led Janet back into the house. The warmth of the kitchen was most welcome. Mr Oliver was sprawled across the chair next to the range. He had one leg over the arm and the other stretched out in front of him. His head was back and his mouth wide open. The bottle of Vat 69 was empty on its side on the floor beside him. Clearly he was no use at all. He was sleeping off a drunken stupor.

  Janet and Shirley went up the stairs as quietly as they could, even though it would have taken nothing less than an invading army of Nazis to wake him. The bedding on the bed under the eaves was in disarray and Shirley was taken aback when Janet heaved herself onto it. Was this where she slept? Shirley remembered seeing a pair of slippers under the bed when Mrs Dyer and Miss Lloyd came to inspect the lovely room at the end of the corridor. Those slippers must have belonged to Janet. But why was Mr Oliver so horrible to her, especially when she was about to give birth to their baby?

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ Shirley asked. She was feeling way out of her depth and pretty useless. She had to wait for an answer while Janet went through another pain. Shirley had no idea that giving birth could hurt so much.

  ‘Get plenty of towels from the linen cupboard,’ said Janet. ‘This will be a bit messy, I’m afraid.’

  Shirley did as she was bidden. In between pains, they laid the towels across the bed, and Janet positioned herself with her bottom in the middle. It didn’t take Shirley long to realize that the pains were coming closer together. All she could do was hold Janet’s hand and pray that the baby wouldn’t come before Granny Roberts arrived. Some while later, her voice called upstairs. Shirley had never been more pleased to hear it.

  Tom had gone back to bed and the old woman needed a little help to get upstairs. There was no banister rail, only a rope slung between four stout rings fixed to the wall. Once she was up under the eaves, Shirley was happy to let Granny Roberts take over and wasted no time in taking the opportunity to go downstairs to make a pot of tea. Mr Oliver remained exactly as he had been until she had one foot on the stairs with the tray of cups. He opened one bloodshot eye and sat up straight.

  ‘What the ’ell are you doing in ’ere?’ He snatched his head in his hands and groaned. ‘I told you before to keep out of Elizabeth’s room.’

  Shirley didn’t stop to give an explanation. Let him find out for himself. He didn’t deserve a girl like Janet, and he certainly didn’t deserve to be a father. She suddenly thought about her own father. She didn’t remember him, of course. She’d been very young when he’d run off with another woman, but sometimes her mother talked about him. She never said anything bad, but Shirley knew her mother had been deeply hurt.

  The moment his head had cleared, Mr Oliver came to the stairs and shouted at Shirley.

  ‘Stay where you are, Gilbert Oliver,’ said Granny Roberts. ‘This is no place for a man.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘What are you doing in my house, you interfering old bid—’ Having reached the landing, he could see the three of them: Janet panting slightly, Granny Roberts mopping her brow with a piece of muslin and Shirley putting down the tea tray.

  ‘The girl’s having her baby,’ Granny said coldly.

  Mr Oliver seemed slightly flummoxed, but then he said, ‘Tell her to hurry up, then. I need a hand with the milking in the morning.’ He pointed a finger at Shirley. ‘And you – get back downstairs.’

  ‘I need her here,’ said Granny Roberts. She seemed totally unfazed by Mr Oliver’s belligerent attitude. ‘I’m not so young as I used to be. I need the girl with me.’

  Mr Oliver opened his mouth to say something, but at the same time Janet cried out as another pain came. He didn’t stay. They heard him clattering his way downstairs, and shortly after that, the back door slammed.

  Janet’s little girl was born at eight forty-five. Mr Oliver had been back a couple of times to demand help in the milking parlour, but each time Granny Roberts sent him packing. When she told him the baby had been born, he made no attempt to come up and see her. Shirley washed the baby, as Granny Roberts said her hands weren’t so good because of the arthritis. If seeing the baby emerge into the world wasn’t amazing enough, giving her a bath in a bowl of warm water was the most fantastic thing Shirley had ever experienced. She felt an instant link with the child, and the fact that it was December 17th and so close to Christmas made it feel all the more special.

  At around ten o’clock, Shirley went back downstairs. Mother and baby were sleeping and Granny Roberts was anxious to get back home to her husband. They put the afterbirth on the fire, and the towels went into the scullery sink to soak for a while in Drummer Boy Blue until Shirley could light the copper and give them a good boil. It had been a long night for all of them, but they felt contented. Granny Roberts said it was good to feel useful again, and even Tom was happy. He’d been working flat out in the milking parlour. Lucky it was Sunday and there was no school. Trudging to the village after the night they’d all had would have been a hard task. Shirley prepared breakfast for everybody. They were all ravenous.

  ‘Aren’t you going upstairs to see the baby?’ Granny Roberts asked Mr Oliver as Shirley offered to walk her home.

  ‘What fer?’ he said, pulling on his jacket. ‘One baby is much the same as another.’

  Florrie had been working as fast as she could. It was the Wednesday before Christmas and Nurse Baxter was getting married today. Florrie had hoped to make a whole bouquet of roses, but it had taken her a couple of days to recover from having her lung deflated for a second time. She constantly felt tired and it was hard to keep cheerful. Her friends on the ward did their best, but everyone was feeling a bit down at the thought of spending Christmas away from friends and family. It didn’t help that they were also concerned about husbands and brothers away in France. Florrie didn’t tell anyone, but even though they weren’t that close, Len was on her mind all the time. Where was he? Was he safe? Dear Lord, supposing he was actually fighting? He could be lying injured somewhere. Concentrating on her paper-folding, Florrie worked hard to keep her dark thoughts at bay.

  In the end, Florrie managed to make four roses, but floristry superstition dictated that all arrangements should be done in odd numbers. Three definitely wasn’t enough, so she had to do a fifth rose. She had worked until lights out the night before. As soon as the morning tea trolley came round, Florrie sat up to do the finishing touches. For some reason, it was taking her twice as long to be completely happy with what she�
��d done. She’d managed to get hold of some glitter, so she added just a touch – not too much or it would look tacky – and then the roses were fastened to a ribbon to form a headdress fit for a princess.

  The day nurses gathered round the ward sister’s desk for morning prayers. They bowed their heads as Sister read the morning collect from the Book of Common Prayer and then they recited the Lord’s Prayer. Florrie closed her eyes and mouthed the words along with them.

  ‘Our Father in heaven . . .’ Please take care of Shirley and Tom. It’s been over a month since I heard from them. ‘Give us today our daily bread . . .’ Thank you that Dr Scott has kept me on the government scheme. It’s such a godsend. I will write up the journal every day just like I promised. Help me to do it even on the days when I don’t feel like it, and please let my observations help somebody else with this terrible disease in the future. ‘Deliver us from evil . . .’ Look after Len and bring him back safely. Protect Betty’s boy and her husband at sea and keep them from harm. ‘For thine is the power . . .’ Bless Doreen and don’t let that old dragon of a mother persuade her to join her in Coventry. ‘Amen.’

  The nurses raised their heads and began their duties. Thank God for every one of them, thought Florrie. They put so much into everything they did. With Christmas only five days away, the ward was already looking festive, with paper chains and a tree in the far corner. There was talk of a visit from Father Christmas, Christmas carols and a Christmas meal. Despite the bleakness they all felt inside, everyone was determined to make the most of the season as they clung to the hope that they would be with their families in 1940. It was Florrie’s constant prayer that Shirley and Tom would enjoy themselves without her.

  Nurse Cook, who was on night duty, was one of the bridesmaids, so she took the headband with her when she went off duty. ‘Wish Nurse Baxter all the best,’ said Florrie as she saw her go.

  ‘Show us a photograph if you can,’ Tina called across the room, and Nurse Cook gave them the thumbs-up.

  The postman had brought another postcard from Shirley. When Florrie looked at the postmark, she saw it had taken a bit longer to get here, probably because of the Christmas rush. Florrie savoured every word.