Always in my Heart

by Pam Weaver

  Janet closed her eyes in despair. Six months. Was that all? She was glad he was to go to prison, but six months wasn’t nearly enough for her and Shirley to carry out their plan. How could they possibly make the farm a going concern in such a short space of time? He’d be back outside by October. They would barely have time to get in the harvest. Her heart was heavy and she was battling tears of disappointment as she stepped out onto the street and into the middle of an April shower. By the time she’d reached the station, she was beginning to pull herself together. She would have to find another solution. She dared not stay with Gilbert. She couldn’t risk putting Lucy in danger. If he’d tried to harm her once, who was to say he wouldn’t try again? Some would have said Shirley had imagined what she said she saw, but when Janet had challenged him, he hadn’t exactly denied it, had he? No. Which was why she daren’t stay. She’d have to think of some other way to survive. The problem was finding a way she could support herself and her daughter. Who would look after Lucy while she went out to work? Where would they live? Most landlords wanted a male guarantor if a woman alone wanted to rent a room – either that or a reference from a bank to say she was a woman with an independent income and flawless character. Janet had neither. Six months. How on earth was she to become a woman of independent means by then? The short answer was, she couldn’t.

  The train from Lewes terminated at Brighton. The Worthing train was gathering a head of steam on another platform, so she had to run to catch it. She climbed into the ladies-only carriage. The two passengers inside barely gave her a glance as she came in, but Janet didn’t care. She sat with her back to the engine and stared out of the window deep in thought. The only other option she had was to . . . No, she couldn’t give her daughter up for adoption. She really couldn’t. A little noise escaped from her throat.

  ‘Are you all right, my dear?’

  The train had reached Lancing and she was alone in the carriage with an elderly lady. She hadn’t noticed the others leaving, nor had she seen the old woman get into the carriage. She was neatly dressed in a grey suit with a pleated skirt. Her silver-white hair was pulled back into an untidy bun, and she was wearing a small grey hat with a pink band. It was only as she turned her head to look at the woman that Janet realized she’d been crying. Hastily wiping away her tears with her gloved hand, Janet said brightly, ‘Yes, thank you. I’m fine.’

  The old woman gave her a concerned look. ‘You’re Mrs Oliver, aren’t you?’

  Janet nodded. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘I’m Elizabeth Oliver’s mother.’

  Janet felt her face colour. ‘Oh,’ she fumbled. ‘I – I’m very sorry for your loss.’

  The woman smiled grimly.

  ‘Everyone says she was a lovely girl,’ said Janet. She wanted to redeem the situation, but it was so difficult to know what to say.

  ‘She was,’ said Elizabeth’s mother. ‘She was the best daughter a woman could have.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Janet helplessly.

  The woman went back to reading her book, but Janet, embarrassed as she was, couldn’t help stealing a glance in her direction every now and then. She was quite old but still an attractive woman. If her mother was this good-looking at her age, Elizabeth must have been stunning.

  The train reached Angmering Station and Janet stood to leave.

  The woman suddenly looked up. ‘I heard that you had a baby.’

  ‘Yes.’ Janet stepped out onto the platform, her hand ready to shut the carriage door.

  ‘Then he served you better than my poor girl,’ the woman said quietly.

  The door slammed between them and Janet hurried along the platform. All she wanted to do right now was hold her baby, but she still had a couple of miles to walk to the farm.

  ‘He served you better . . .’ What did that mean? Puzzled, Janet couldn’t make sense of it.

  The centre of the village was blocked off when she got there. Some workmen had the culvert open and a policeman was guarding the entrance. A police car waited in the road. A small huddle of women stood outside the village hall. As Janet came up to them, a woman wearing a primrose brooch on her coat lapel turned round.

  ‘They won’t let you pass, dear,’ she said. ‘We all have to wait here.’

  ‘How much longer is this going to take?’ grumbled a woman in a bright red coat. ‘Only, I need to get to the butcher’s before he shuts. I’ve got unexpected visitors coming for tea.’

  ‘The sergeant told me they have to keep coming back up for air,’ said a third woman.

  ‘They should have got it sorted out months ago,’ said the primrose-brooch woman. ‘It was flooded for days and days in the winter. I complained to the council loads of times.’

  ‘And the smell,’ said the red-coat woman. They all shook their heads in shared disgust.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Janet.

  The third woman turned to her. ‘Haven’t you heard, dear? They’ve found a body in the culvert.’

  Florrie could still feel the letter in the pocket of her apron. The hard edges of the envelope dug into her thigh as she moved. It had come that morning, but she still hadn’t the courage to open it.

  Right now, she was in the potting shed. The doctor had decreed that she should spend the next three weeks working outside. Well, it could hardly be called work, but it was tiring. She sat at a wooden bench with a tray of seedlings in front of her. Her job was to thin them out so that before long they would be ready for planting.

  Charlie Fisher, the man in charge of the potting shed, was not a happy man. ‘Last year,’ he lamented, ‘I had the best sweet peas in the village and my lupins were the best in the autumn show. This year, thanks to Adolf bloody Hitler, it’s all potatoes, peas and carrots.’

  Florrie smiled to herself as she pulled out a straggly, half-formed baby carrot. ‘It’s just as wonderful watching things growing from scratch,’ she said. ‘I’d love a bit of your carrot.’

  Charlie harrumphed. The woman on the bench beside her sniggered. Florrie hadn’t meant it that way, but she couldn’t resist a smile. She concentrated on her tray.

  When she had seen Dr Scott just yesterday, he’d told her it was time for her to move on. He had, he explained, found her a place in a convalescent home near Fontwell.

  ‘I chose it because it’s not too far from your children,’ he said. ‘You did say they were billeted in Worthing?’

  Florrie had nodded.

  ‘Fontwell is only about fourteen miles from Worthing.’

  Fourteen miles? Florrie had sucked her bottom lip excitedly. There would be a bus Shirley could catch, surely. ‘Thank you,’ she’d whispered gratefully.

  ‘It’s not expensive,’ he’d assured her. ‘Four guineas a week excluding doctor’s bills. I suggest you stay for three months.’

  Back on the ward, Florrie breathed a sigh of relief. She had got off lightly. Had she already been paying for this hospital, she would have used every penny she’d ever had and a lot more. The shop had been doing quite well (God bless dear Betty for all her hard work) and if all went to plan, there was still a chance that she’d come out of this with a little bit put by. Shirley had written to say she wanted to go to college. Even if she won the scholarship, there would still be things to buy, like clothes and books. As for Tom, well, she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

  The letter in Florrie’s pocket was from Ruth. She knew it was. She didn’t recognize the handwriting at the top of the envelope, but the person who had added her address was Mrs Andrews. Florrie had recognized her handwriting at once.

  They had exchanged letters over the weeks.

  ‘Yes, of course I want to meet Ruth,’ Florrie had written earlier. ‘How much does she know?’

  ‘Her adoptive mother only told her she came from Canning Town. Do you want me to explain everything? She’s coming here tomorrow. She’s a lovely young woman. You’ll like her a lot.’

  Later, Mrs Andrews had written: ‘I told Ruth I knew less than
nothing about her circumstances except to say that she was born illegitimate.’

  Damn, thought Florrie when she’d read that. I wanted to explain. Why couldn’t you leave well alone? She read on:

  ‘I think she might have already guessed. I took the liberty of telling her it was impossible for her to stay with her birth family. The stigma, you know . . . Of course I didn’t tell her where she was born. Rest assured, Florence, she knows nothing, but she wants to write to you. I’ve told her if she gives the letter to me, I shall pass it on.’

  Florrie touched her pocket and felt the letter crinkle.

  ‘You’d better go back to the ward now, Florrie,’ said Charlie, interrupting her thoughts. ‘The doc said one hour a day and you’ve already done nearly two.’

  Florrie laid down her trowel. ‘I’ve really enjoyed it,’ she said. ‘Working in the shop all day, I never did get much time to grow things, apart from a few tomatoes in the summer.’ She stood to leave. ‘Nothing beats a nice home-grown tomato.’

  Charlie harrumphed again. ‘Give me a sweet-smelling lily of the valley or a purple lupin any day.’

  Florrie took off her garden apron and hung it on a hook by the door.

  ‘Don’t forget your letter,’ Charlie cautioned.

  She didn’t go back to the ward straight away. Florrie made for the veranda instead. It was empty. Most people were still having their afternoon nap. As she tore open the envelope, her heartbeat quickened and her hand trembled a little.

  ‘Chickens,’ said Shirley as Janet walked through the door.

  ‘Pardon?’ Janet had just come from Granny Roberts’s place with Lucy in her arms. She was enjoying the warmth of her little body, the smell of her and listening to her small, contented noises. Cuddling Lucy this way made the disappointment of the day fade a little.

  ‘Vince has been telling me some good ways to make a bit of money,’ Shirley went on, her bright eyes dancing with excitement. ‘We hatch some eggs and advertise the chicks for sale in the village. Apparently, lots of people want to keep chickens now. It’s a good way to get fresh eggs, and the birds that don’t lay well will make a lovely Christmas dinner later in the year.’

  Janet sat at the table with Lucy on her lap.

  ‘And another thing,’ Shirley went on. ‘When I ran to the village to get help the day Mr Oliver got bitten, I tried to get into the farm on Water Lane, but the geese frightened me. We should get some geese as well. They’d be better than a watchdog, and we’d have goose eggs to sell too.’ She became aware that although she was listening, Janet was preoccupied with something else. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Shirley. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘He’s coming out in six months,’ said Janet.

  ‘Six months!’ Shirley could hardly believe it. ‘But PC Duffy was so sure . . .’

  ‘They found him not guilty,’ said Janet, shaking her head. ‘The six months were because he was rude to the judge.’

  Stunned, Shirley slid onto a chair. ‘Oh, Janet, what are we going to do?’

  CHAPTER 21

  Shirley couldn’t help feeling a bit down. The news that Mr Oliver would only be gone until harvest time had scuppered all her plans. Janet seemed to have given up altogether when it came to making the farm viable, and even her enthusiastic idea about the chickens had been met by a blank stare. Vince had shaken his head when she told him.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he’d said bleakly. ‘If you ask me, it looks like the farm will be requisitioned. They won’t allow it to carry on the way it is now.’

  Granny Roberts came up to the house the next day.

  ‘You want to know what happened to Gil,’ said Janet.

  ‘I do,’ said Granny, ‘and I’ve got some news of me own.’

  Janet told her everything as she fussed around Granny Roberts, making her tea and offering her the last of the home-made cake.

  ‘What are you going to do for money?’ Granny Roberts asked when Janet told her she was leaving as soon as possible.

  Janet shrugged. ‘I don’t have a bean.’

  Shirley was washing up at the sink. ‘That’s why we need to get the chickens under way,’ she said.

  ‘Do you really think I want to leave behind anything for that man?’ Janet said coldly.

  ‘You won’t have to,’ Shirley insisted. ‘Look,’ she said, drying her hands and coming to join them at the kitchen table. ‘We’ve got six months. All right, I know it’s hardly long enough, but we could still get something out of it. Like I said, the pullets are nearly six weeks old. What with the war and everything, more and more people are wanting to keep their own chickens. We could make a few bob selling them on.’

  Janet glanced at Granny, who was nodding her head. Encouraged, Shirley went on, ‘Vince has been telling me how we can hatch the eggs ourselves to make sure we don’t lose any. We can even sell them as day-old chicks.’

  ‘If we do that,’ said Janet, ‘there’ll be fewer stock.’

  ‘So?’ Shirley challenged. ‘You’ve just said you don’t want to leave anything behind.’

  Janet glanced at Granny.

  ‘The girl has a point,’ said Granny Roberts.

  ‘It would have been fun making a real go of it,’ said Shirley, ‘but if we can’t have that, we can at least take away something.’

  ‘Are you planning to leave as well?’ asked Janet.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Shirley. ‘I shall have the results of the exam in a couple of weeks, but I don’t know if I can go to college. I have to think about Tom.’

  Janet gave her a sympathetic smile.

  ‘How many hens have you got?’ asked Granny Roberts.

  ‘I’ve done a count,’ said Shirley. ‘There’s fifty-eight good layers and another twenty who are coming up for laying. They’re about six or seven months old, and I know the cockerel has been busy, so when they lay, their eggs will be fertilized. As for the rest of them, the ones who aren’t good layers, they can go to market for meat.’

  Janet grinned. ‘It seems that you’ve got it all worked out.’

  ‘Only because I thought we’d have a couple of years, maybe four, giving us a chance to prove that we could make the farm viable,’ said Shirley. ‘I did what Mr Telford said. I listened to Vince and Seth.’

  ‘I think you should give the girl a chance,’ said Granny Roberts.

  ‘I’d like to,’ said Janet, ‘but to have good layers, you have to feed them special food. They’re going to need bran and maize and sharps. Where’s the money coming from for that?’

  ‘My postal orders,’ said Shirley.

  The three of them fell silent, until Granny Roberts slapped her knee with her hand and burst out laughing. ‘Good Lord alive, Janet, this girl has got some pluck.’

  ‘All right,’ said Janet with a slow smile, ‘you’ve convinced me.’

  ‘And don’t forget you’ve got the pigs as well,’ said Granny.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Shirley. ‘Now, I’ve been reading up on them and the Large Whites are good for bacon, while the Berkshires are better for pork. We can make quite a bit of money with them.’

  ‘And how are we going to pay for them?’ said Janet.

  ‘Vince knows a farmer who will let us have them for nothing providing he gets a share of the meat when they’re ready,’ said Shirley. ‘We could start a pig club perhaps, with anyone who is willing to feed it with their scraps getting a share when it’s killed.’

  Janet looked thoughtful. ‘I still can’t see how we can possibly look after the cows, the extra chickens as well as the pigs!’

  ‘Tom is good with the bigger beasts,’ said Granny Roberts. ‘With a little help from Seth, I reckon he could manage the pigs.’

  ‘He’d love that,’ said Shirley. ‘He’s never been trusted to do something like that on his own before.’

  ‘Seth tells me he’s shown a lot of interest in the bees,’ said Granny. Shirley raised an eyebrow, so she added, ‘Seth has got six hives. Tom ain’t afeared of them at all.’
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  ‘There’s a couple of empty hives at the other end of the orchard,’ said Janet. ‘What if he started another colony there?’

  Shirley put her hand to her face. ‘That would mean we’d have honey as well.’

  ‘If we go for all this,’ Janet told Shirley, ‘you and I will have an awful lot to do. I’m a bit worried because you’re not so keen on looking after the animals.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Shirley, ‘but somehow this is different. This is for us. This is for Tom and Lucy.’

  Janet’s eyes drifted towards Lucy’s pram.

  ‘Oh, I can look after the baby,’ said Granny Roberts eagerly. The two women looked at her uncertainly. ‘I may be slow,’ she went on, ‘but you can trust me. You two come up with the ideas and work the farm, and I’ll look after Lucy.’

  Janet’s eyes sparkled. ‘Then I want us to share everything,’ she said. ‘Equal parts.’

  Shirley looked up at the clock. ‘The men will be coming in for their lunch in a minute.’

  Granny Roberts stood to make another pot of tea, while Shirley got out the bread knife and began to slice the bread. Janet fed and changed Lucy.

  ‘You said when you came in,’ Janet reminded Granny Roberts, ‘that you had some news of your own to share.’

  Granny Roberts sighed. ‘I hates to put the dampener on things, but they found a body in the culvert yesterday.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I already know about that,’ said Janet. ‘When I got off the train, I had to wait for ages by the village hall until they’d got whoever it was out. They were saying the body had been down there a long time.’

  ‘The culvert?’ said Shirley.

  ‘It’s that big drain in the village,’ said Janet. ‘It runs from the bottom of the hill through the village and comes out near the village hall.’

  ‘I know where you mean,’ said Shirley. ‘When Tom and I first came here, some boys from the school made Tom go down there. He didn’t get far – less than halfway.’

  ‘They do it for a dare,’ said Granny Roberts, nodding. ‘It’s not that big, but it would have been difficult for a lad like Tom to manage it.’