by Pam Weaver
Happy Christmas, Mum. I am in a show in the village hall. Tom is helping behind the scenes. Thanks for posting our winter things. Mrs Oliver’s baby is coming soon. I can hardly wait. Please write if you can. We miss you.
Love,
Shirley and Tom xx
Florrie frowned. Shirley didn’t mention the postal order. She knew Betty and Doreen had added to the pound she’d given Doreen when she came, but Shirley hadn’t bothered to say thank you. Florrie excused her a little because there wasn’t much space on the card, but she should have said something. Shirley had been brought up to know better than that. Ah well, at least they’d got their warm things.
The day passed by uneventfully until teatime, when there was a bit of a commotion around the ward sister’s desk. Florrie, who had had her eyes closed, looked up to see Nurse Baxter with her bridegroom. Everyone was very excited. He looked so handsome in his uniform, but he hardly looked old enough to be in the RAF! His new wife was wearing a blue suit with a crisp white blouse. She carried a Bernhardt bouquet on her arm, which was made up of Christmas foliage with a scattering of snow-white chrysanthemums intertwined with white ribbon. On her head, she had a jaunty little hat, which was pulled over to the right side of her forehead. Her hair was swept back and pinned in a roll on the neckline. When she turned her head, Florrie could see that her paper roses lay along the top of the roll. Nurse Baxter, now Mrs Antell, did a twirl at the end of Florrie’s bed and everybody clapped. They all agreed that she looked every inch the beautiful bride. Florrie was pleased too. That bit of glitter had made all the difference.
When she had gone, Florrie leaned back against her pillows. She would write to Betty tomorrow and ask about the postal order. Maybe they forgot to send it to Shirley. Or perhaps they’d sent it in a separate envelope and it hadn’t arrived when she’d sent the postcard. Florrie sighed. She longed with every fibre of her being to see her children again . . . to hold them . . . to tell them she loved them . . . She pulled herself up short. Stop this, she told herself sternly. No good ever came of self-pity. She pulled the postcard towards her and read it again. Thanks for posting our winter things. That was funny. Doreen had taken them to Angmering in a suitcase, hadn’t she? And according to her letter, she’d given them to the farmer personally. How odd. Come to think of it, Shirley hadn’t mentioned the special little surprise she’d asked Betty to put in the inside pocket of the suitcase either. Now Florrie knew something was wrong. What sort of girl would forget to thank her mother for her first lipstick?
CHAPTER 13
Christmas at the farm had been a small affair. Mr Oliver was still moody, so apart from eating a meal with them, he spent the day working outside. Shirley, Tom and Janet enjoyed having the day virtually to themselves and they made the most of it.
When Mr Oliver had given Shirley the money to buy warmer clothes at the jumble sale, she’d also bought a small teddy for the baby and a bottle of scent for Janet. The scent wasn’t up to much, which was probably why it had ended up in the jumble sale in the first place, but Janet was very appreciative of the thought. Shirley had hung around until the very end of the sale and picked up a picture book for Tom. Called The Observer’s Guide to British Birds, it had been published in 1937 by Frederick Warne & Co. The dust jacket was a little buffed, but she knew he would enjoy looking up the species of bird he’d seen on the farm. Although she didn’t like him much, Shirley didn’t forget Mr Oliver either. She’d bargained for a pack of playing cards and got them for a farthing. It was a complete set, including two jokers. Shirley was careful to have enough money left over to buy two postage stamps when she’d finished shopping. Now at last she could write her mother and Auntie Betty and Auntie Doreen a proper letter. Without stamps, there had been little point in putting pen to paper.
Janet had no money either, but she’d made Shirley and Tom a pair of gloves each. It came as a complete surprise to Shirley because she’d never even noticed Janet knitting them. They were made out of old scraps of wool, but that only made them all the more colourful.
Tom hadn’t been idle either. To Shirley’s surprise and delight, he’d found some hedgerow edibles for them. Janet got a few wild mushrooms layered on some watercress (where on earth had he managed to find that in this frosty weather?) in an old blackbird’s nest, while Shirley got some cobnuts tossed into an abandoned robin’s nest.
Mr Oliver had poured scorn on the giving and receiving of presents. He had bought nothing and left the playing cards where Shirley put them down. He pointed out sourly that although Janet was excused, the farm jobs still had to be done. Shirley and Tom went into the milking shed and on to the parlour and did everything together to make light work of it. When they finally came back into the house, they were greeted by a wonderful smell.
Sometime before, Janet had selected a chicken for the meal. It showed no sign of illness, but it wasn’t a good layer and it picked on the other hens in a very aggressive way. It wasn’t a young bird, so she had killed it a week before and hung it up in the cold pantry before slow-cooking it for about eight hours with some onions, celery and herbs from the garden. By that time, the meat was falling off the bones, but she wasn’t finished yet. She used the carcass to make a delicious-looking chicken stock. On Christmas morning, she had put the meat back into the juices and added carrots and parsnips before simmering. By the time she had served it with roast potatoes and cabbage, they had a meal to remember. Shirley made an apple pie using some of the Alfriston apples they’d stored a month or two earlier, and they ate it with a hot sauce a bit like custard, made with cornflour and milk. It was delicious.
Later in the afternoon, they listened to the king’s speech from Sandringham. It seemed incredible that they were actually hearing as he spoke the words. When it was over, Shirley couldn’t remember much of what he said, except that he had talked of the nation fighting against wickedness and that waiting was a trial of nerve and discipline. He ended the speech with a poem. They cleared the table and used Mr Oliver’s playing cards to play whist, snap and sevens. Each time the baby was fed, Tom and Shirley gazed in wonder. By the time bedtime came, they all agreed that, although it was quiet, they’d had a wonderful day.
Florrie’s Christmas had been better than expected. She’d had to rest a lot of the time, of course, but the nurses had done their best to make the day memorable. Father Christmas came and gave everyone a present from the nurses. Florrie received a small tin of Imperial Leather talc. She felt strangely touched, even more so when someone told her that the nurses had bought their presents out of their own money.
The nurses themselves were inundated with boxes of chocolates, but the ward sister refused to let them open them. Florrie heard a bit of muttering about it from one or two of the younger nurses. Nurse Fletcher was particularly annoyed. ‘I’ve given up my family Christmas,’ she complained, as she tidied away the chairs after visiting hour, ‘but we haven’t even had a sniff of anything Christmassy on this ward. My friend works on Larch Ward. Sister has set aside a whole room for her nurses. They’ve got sweets and biscuits and even a little sherry.’
‘The nurses aren’t the only ones on the ward who work hard and give up their Christmas,’ said Nurse Cook. ‘There’s the cleaners, the ward orderly and the laundry lady, not to mention all the night staff. If we open a box of chocolates now, I guarantee they’ll all be gone by teatime.’
Nurse Fletcher was unimpressed. ‘So if we don’t get them, what happens to them?’
‘Sister saves them all up until we have enough to go round,’ said Nurse Cook, lowering her voice. ‘She gets one of the nurses to put everybody’s name on bags and then we all get to take some home.’ She glanced at Florrie, who was leaning back against her pillows. Florrie pretended to be preoccupied with her book. She knew Sister didn’t like her nurses talking about each other within earshot of the patients.
The two nurses walked away. Florrie watched them go. Having no chocolates might be a little disappointing today, but it seemed a much fa
irer way of doing things.
It looked as if it was going to be a bad winter. The weather outside was awful, but it was lovely and snug in her sitting room. Augusta Andrews liked times like this. She and Bertram were tired but not yet ready to go to bed. He was catching up with the newspapers, and she was knitting some thick woollen socks on four needles. She’d read an article that said deep-sea fishermen in the North Atlantic needed warm clothing and so she’d persuaded the Townswomen’s Guild to begin an initiative to send them a hundred pairs of long socks as part of the war effort. As a woman who led by example, Augusta enjoyed ‘doing her bit’.
She had always taken her position as a doctor’s wife very seriously. She had no children of her own. Sadly, they’d never been blessed that way, but helping the people around here more than made up for her lack. She belonged to a number of organizations. She was chairman of the local Townswomen’s Guild, an active Guider, a member of the board of governors at the local hospital and a member of the Church Missions Board. And if all that wasn’t enough, she was thinking of becoming a member of the Inner Wheel, a women’s organization that was closely linked to the Rotary Club. Of course, all these activities could be seriously curtailed if this part of London was bombed in the way everybody thought, but so far, despite all the preparations for war, it seemed a long way off.
Augusta’s cat, Marmaduke, leapt up beside her and sought the warmth of her lap. She lifted her knitting to accommodate him and then stroked his fur. She was so glad she hadn’t acted as hastily as some of her friends. The day after war was declared, Millicent Tucker had had her dogs put down. Colonel Watson had his cat put to sleep a week later, but Augusta couldn’t bear the thought of losing Marmaduke and so she had kept putting it off. That was months ago and she still had him. The cat wriggled and purred. He was such a delightful animal.
A sharp rap on the door knocker made them both look up. ‘Oh no,’ said Augusta, ‘not tonight, surely?’
‘Absolutely not, my dear,’ said her husband. ‘Harris is the duty doctor tonight. Send whoever it is to him. I’m determined not to give up my fireside even if it’s Mr Churchill himself.’
Augusta rose to her feet. When she opened the door, a young woman stood on the step. ‘Mrs Andrews?’
‘Yes,’ she said uncertainly.
‘You don’t know me,’ the woman went on, ‘or at least you did know me a long time ago when I was a babe in arms, but we’ve not met since then.’
Augusta looked at her steadily.
‘You organized my adoption,’ the woman said. ‘My name is Hannah now, but back then it was Ruth. May I come in?’
Augusta, too polite to say, ‘Come back tomorrow,’ stepped aside. ‘I’m rather busy at the moment, so I’m afraid you can’t stay. Is there a complaint?’ It seemed a bit ridiculous, but why else would the girl be here?
The girl shivered in the hallway. ‘Oh no. I had a wonderful life with my parents. Sadly, they’ve both passed away now.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Augusta.
‘My father died in 1937, and my mother died last month,’ said Hannah. ‘Before she went, she told me all about the part you played in my adoption.’
‘I see,’ said Augusta, wishing she would get to the point.
‘I want to meet my birth family.’
Augusta stared at her, startled. No one had ever come back and asked that before. ‘I’m not sure—’ she began.
‘Oh, please don’t say no, Mrs Andrews,’ the girl interrupted. ‘Please try. Ask them if I could meet them. If they say no, I won’t make a fuss, but please try.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Ruth Mitchell,’ said Hannah.
Some distant and not-so-distant memories tumbled into place. ‘You’re Florrie’s daughter,’ she murmured.
‘So you do remember me!’ Hannah cried. ‘Oh, please say you’ll help.’
Augusta did some quick thinking. Florence was ill. Perhaps far too ill to cope with such a shock, and she didn’t want to tell the girl what was wrong with her. She’d have to see how Florence felt about meeting Hannah, as she was known now. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ she said. ‘I cannot discuss anything with you until I have spoken to all the relevant parties. When I took on this role as mediator, I took a solemn promise not to divulge any information without prior consent.’
Hannah was clearly disappointed. ‘I understand.’
‘If you’d like to leave your details, I shall write a letter as soon as you’ve gone.’
‘Oh, that would be wonderful!’ cried Hannah.
Augusta raised her hand. ‘I urge you not to get your hopes up. Your relative made a decision in what she thought were your best interests and she has got on with her life since then. She may not want to be disturbed.’ Augusta still felt the need to protect the child, and it was easier to put it that way rather than say, ‘She’s got tuberculosis of the lung and is desperately ill.’
Back in the sitting room, Bertram glanced up from his evening paper. ‘You were gone a long time.’
‘The most extraordinary thing . . .’ Augusta began. ‘Only a month or two ago, Florence Jenkins asked me if I knew what happened to the baby she gave up for adoption, and would you believe it, that was her, twenty-two years old now, knocking on the door to ask me about her birth family.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said her husband.
A couple of weeks later, when the morning milking was finished, Shirley asked if she could change the baby’s nappy. Janet was back at work and tidying up the milking parlour. It was a bitterly cold day. ‘Why not?’ she said. They could both hear a plaintive, reedy cry coming from inside the house. ‘I think she’s ready for her breakfast.’
Shirley went inside, glad to be in the warm at last. She washed her hands at the kitchen sink and headed for the stairs. It was wonderful to be able to play with the baby. Janet still hadn’t decided on a name for her, which was a bit frustrating, and being so young, the baby wasn’t very responsive as yet, but she was a sturdy little thing and Shirley loved her to bits. Funny but Shirley never minded changing the baby’s nappy. The smell of cow dung still turned her stomach, but even though the nappy could be awful, it didn’t worry her.
As she mounted the stairs, the baby’s lusty cry became a little muffled. Shirley reached the top of the stairs and saw Mr Oliver leaning over the crib. She smiled. This was the first time the baby’s father had shown any interest in her. Maybe she should go away and leave them together for a while. The baby’s cry wasn’t nearly as loud as it had been when she’d first mounted the stair. They must be getting to know each other. Shirley had a sudden thought. It was a bit cramped and draughty up here on the landing. Maybe Mr Oliver would prefer to sit down with his daughter and give her a cuddle.
‘Shall I change her nappy for you, and then you can give her a cuddle?’
She saw him visibly jump and then straighten up. The baby bellowed at the top of her lungs, twice as loud as before.
Mr Oliver turned round and glared at her. To Shirley’s dismay, he pushed past her and almost ran down the stairs. Guiltily, she watched him go. Perhaps she should have crept away and said nothing. She’d obviously embarrassed him by the interruption. She bent to look down into the crib. The baby was hot and sweaty and clearly very upset. The pillow that Janet put at the back to protect her daughter’s head from the wooden back was lying across her head and shoulders. Shirley spoke gently and took it away from her face. There was a pool of saliva and sick in the centre of the pillow and crease marks going towards the edge. Shirley’s blood ran cold. What had Mr Oliver been doing? She picked up the distraught baby and did her best to soothe her and gradually she calmed down.
Shirley changed her nappy, remembering to put her fingers between the towelling nappy and the baby’s skin. That way, if the pin went in too quickly, she would prick her own fingers rather than Janet’s little girl. Still eyeing the pillow, she wrapped the baby in her shawl and took her downstairs.
C
HAPTER 14
Janet had washed her hands and was waiting for her in the chair by the fireside. ‘What do you think of the name Lucy?’ she asked.
‘It’s lovely,’ said Shirley. She handed the baby to her mother. They’d been over a thousand names. Barbara, Sally, Patricia, Alice . . . Janet suggested them and then grew tired of them. A couple of days ago, Granny Roberts had told her that the baby had to be registered within forty-two days of the birth. With only another fortnight to go, the search for a name was deadly serious now.
‘Ooh,’ said Janet, as she took the baby into her arms, ‘she’s very hot.’
Shirley chewed her bottom lip anxiously. ‘The pillow at the end of her crib had fallen onto her face,’ she said. Should she tell Janet about her suspicions?
‘I’d better take that out, then,’ said Janet. ‘Good job you were there. Poor little Lucy.’ The baby latched on to her breast and before long Shirley could hear little gurgling sounds as she swallowed her milk. ‘What’s wrong, Shirley?’
Janet’s question took Shirley by surprise. She had been doing her best to hide her feelings, and Janet had appeared to be totally preoccupied with her daughter. ‘Nothing,’ she said brightly.
‘Yes, there is,’ said Janet. ‘Tell me.’
Shirley sucked in her lips. If she told Janet and she confronted her husband, he’d only call her a liar, but it really did look as if Mr Oliver had been trying to smother the baby. Shirley tried to make sense of it, but she couldn’t. Why would he do that? What sort of a father would want to harm his own child? Perhaps it was best not to say anything; after all, she had no proof. On the other hand, what if it happened again?
They heard the sound of a car drawing up outside and the dog started to bark.
‘Shirley?’