by Lizzie Lane
Frances had taken advantage of the fact that the coat was too big for her and worn thicker jumpers, though the shoulder pads were still too large for her frame, sagging a bit down her arms.
They hurried down Court Road and up the other side, following the lane at the side of the church and the old manor house. The path across the field was uneven and there were sharp rocks sticking out between mounds of dug earth. Trees, their roots barely holding on to the earth, leaned over each and every ditch, chasms that might once have been firm ground. The deep ditches were ideal for making into a den by enterprising youngsters. They’d been making dens here for generations.
The path down to their particular den, the one they called the Dingle, was steep and stony, a definite asset in dry weather, but treacherous when the ground was covered in frost or when it was damp as it was today.
Frances took small, careful steps, her arms held out on either side of her like a tightrope walker. Paul followed on behind with trudging steps, automatically grabbing her upper arm when it seemed she might slip.
‘I never used to slip,’ she said indignantly.
‘You never used to wear shoes with heels,’ returned Paul.
Frances noted his tone. She’d noticed that men often adopted a tone like that when women were talking about shoes and clothes, subjects that obviously bored them. The shoes belonged to Mary who said she could borrow them for special occasions. Frances counted taking Charlie for a walk as good an occasion as any.
The thorny bushes to either side grabbed at the hem of her coat. The coat had been made before guidelines had been passed on how much material could be used. Coats these days were a lot skimpier than they had been.
Finally they were on level ground, high stony banks and foliage rising to either side of them.
A mist swirled around the roots of the trees and lumps of rock pierced the dark earth where whole sections of farmland had sunk down into the old mine shafts. The corridor it formed was a dead end. That’s where the Dingle was situated. Nobody could recall who had first decided to build a den here. It seemed as if it had been here for ever, refurbished and redesigned in consecutive summers by a new generation of kids.
Formed over a large ditch about four or five feet deep, the twisted roots and spindly trunks of dead trees formed a framework for a roof of corrugated iron and tarpaulin. Various pieces of old carpet and linoleum covered the dirt floor and there were bits of wood laid on bricks to form benches. An old chair took precedence at one end of the room, the preserve of the gang leader – whoever that happened to be at any specific moment in time.
‘You used to be the gang leader,’ Frances said suddenly, shaking him from his thoughts.
‘Yeah. When I was a kid. It’s Billy Tanner now.’
Billy Tanner was the son of the porter down Bitton Railway Station. Frances guessed he might be a popular choice on account of all the railways bits and pieces stored at the back of the signal box just a quarter of a mile down the line. Dens were only as good as the material they were made from and Billy had access to broken and disused railway sleepers.
The darkness intensified the further in they went, the stringy branches interlocking overhead like so much woven raffia. Even though the branches were bare, they diminished the daylight into twilight and shadows into darkness. Anyone who didn’t know the den was here would never find it.
A bird flew from a low hanging branch at their approach. Something scuttled into the undergrowth. By virtue of the rock and earth strata on either side, no wind disturbed the peaty air.
Frances suddenly stopped in her tracks, aware that she’d heard something, but not quite sure what it was.
‘Singing,’ she said softly. The sound made her tingle all over. ‘I can hear somebody singing.’
Paul looked terrified. ‘Is it a ghost?’ His eyes were round as the marbles he used to roll along the gutter.
Frances frowned. It was a woman’s voice singing softly. She recognised a lullaby the twins used to sing to her when she was smaller. Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber. All at once it stopped. The voice that had been singing was now saying something, though Frances couldn’t quite make out what it was. And then it came to her. Cooing. Baby talk. Somebody was talking to a baby!
She looked at Paul and pointed in the direction of the den. ‘Someone’s there,’ she whispered.
The sound ceased. Whoever was inside had heard them. For a moment there was silence, and then …
‘Hello! Is somebody there?’
‘Yes. Is that you, Miriam?’
‘Yes. Yes, it’s me.’
The voice seemed to fall away as though Miriam regretted having spoken.
Frances pressed on. ‘It’s Frances Sweet. I’m looking for my nephew. Have you seen him?’
There was the sound of movement, things bumping. There was also the unmistakable sound of Charlie chortling good-naturedly between sharp cries and unintelligible sounds that weren’t quite words.
‘Charlie!’ Before she had chance to get down on her knees and crawl forward, there was Charlie, his face beaming with smiles and arms outstretched as he toddled towards her. Feeling relieved and too excited for words, she bent down so he could run into her arms. ‘Charlie,’ she shouted again.
Charlie didn’t hesitate. Gurgling and laughing, he started towards her, tottering along on legs that were becoming stronger every day.
‘Thank God for that,’ she heard Paul say.
Hugging her nephew to her breast, she squeezed her eyes shut and offered up a prayer of thanks. Charlie hadn’t been taken by the gypsies or fallen into a stream and drowned and neither had he been spirited away by the fairies; he was here, in her arms, happy as could be.
On opening her eyes she espied the figure of Miriam Powell, her black coat dragging in the dirt as she crawled out from the entrance to the den.
‘I found him,’ said Miriam once she was on her feet. Her smile was hesitant as were her movements. She took a step or two forward, wringing her hands, then stopped before taking two more. ‘He was lost. But I found you, didn’t I, Charlie? I found you.’
She reached out to stroke the chubby hand that lay on Frances’s shoulder.
Frances glared at her. ‘I don’t want you touching him.’
‘But I found him, and Charlie likes me. Don’t you Charlie?’ Totally disregarding Paul, she turned back to Frances, her face shining with delight. ‘I think he thinks that I’m his mother.’
Frances fancied she could smell coal dust. Miriam’s hands were dirty, her fingernails black. Her face was streaked with black dust and so was the funny old hat she was wearing which resembled a tea cosy. What had she been doing? Frances wondered. Living in the coal shed?
‘Where did you find him?’ Paul asked.
Joyful at finding her nephew, Frances had almost forgotten about Paul but was grateful to hear his voice, glad he was asking a sensible question. In other circumstances, she would have asked the same question, but her nerves were still on edge. Things could have worked out so differently.
‘In the churchyard. I found him there. He goes there with Mr Sweet sometimes. I’ve seen them. Mr Sweet talks to his wife. I know she’s dead, but that’s what he does – talks to her as though she were alive. He’s not mad, mind you. It’s easy to imagine somebody you love and to talk to them. Very easy.’
‘I know,’ Frances said quietly. ‘Why did you bring him here?’
‘The Dingle is a safe place, just for kids,’ said Miriam, half turning and glancing at the makeshift structure with something approaching affection. ‘I used to play here when I was a child. We all did. We had fun here. It was better than home. When I could get away,’ she added. She looked this way and that as though half expecting to be discovered and dragged off home. ‘My mother didn’t like me coming here. She stopped it. She didn’t like me going to stay with Gran either. She stopped me doing that too.’
Resentment briefly flashed in Miriam’s eyes, but it didn’t last. Miriam was in the ha
bit of bowing to her mother’s dictates. Nothing was going to change that. Her face, then her whole body, seemed to crumple.
Frances turned to Paul. ‘I think we should go. They’ll be looking for us, and everyone’s worried enough as it is without it looking as though we’re missing too.’
Paul agreed with her. Carefully, so as not to slip especially now she had Charlie in her arms, they wound their way back along the path, away from the tangled roots and branches of the copse and back into the open field.
As they picked their way, Charlie waved at Miriam and muttered what sounded like ‘mum’ but could just as easily have been ‘mmmmm’.
‘He was ever so good,’ Miriam called out as she followed on behind, picking her way along the path.
‘He is good,’ snapped Frances.
She hugged Charlie tightly against her chest, extra careful now not to slip.
Miriam tried again to make polite conversation.
‘I think Charlie is looking after his son. He’s an angel. Angels can do anything.’
Frances quite liked the thought of her cousin Charlie being an angel, but didn’t want to be drawn into a conversation with the woman who had found her nephew. She was feeling bad enough about it as it was. And somehow she didn’t believe that Miriam was entirely telling the truth.
It seemed Paul was having the same doubts. ‘Seems a long way for a baby to wander in that time.’
It made Frances wonder. She might have wondered some more if she hadn’t heard Miriam let out a loud yelp.
Both she and Paul turned round to see Miriam’s hat had been pulled off her head by an overhanging branch. There it was, swinging from a twig. What was even more surprising was that her hair was cut very short and not glamorously so. It stuck up all over her head in short tufts. Here and there were brown patches – scuds. Frances had grazed her knees in the past enough times to know what they meant. Blood. Miriam’s hair had been cut short and whoever had cut it had not been gentle.
Looking despairingly distraught, Miriam snatched the hat from the twig using both hands to pull it firmly down on her head. Her eyes fluttered and her face turned pale.
‘I’m not supposed to be out.’
‘Then you’d better come on back with us,’ suggested Paul. He was standing with his hips thrust forward, shoulders back as he tried to work out what was going on here.
Somebody suddenly called out from a point between the church and the manor house. It was Tom Shepherd and a few of the others.
‘We’ve found him,’ Frances shouted, intent to get back and tell her uncle Stan that all was well. ‘He’s all right. Miriam said she found him.’
Whatever her reservations with regard to Miriam’s story, it was as near the truth as they had at present. Charlie was safe. She turned meaning to acknowledge Miriam, but she wasn’t there.
‘Off towards the church by the looks of it,’ said Paul.
‘And I’m off home,’ murmured Frances, exhausted by all that had happened and concerned what her uncle’s reaction might be.
‘I’ll come with you.’
Her uncle Stan was waiting for them with Bettina Hicks. The moment he saw Charlie, the anxiety left his face. ‘You’ve found him!’
Too choked up and relieved to reply, Frances beamed and nodded.
Her uncle went down on one knee, arms outstretched. Charlie willingly went into his grandfather’s arms.
‘He was with Miriam Powell in our den at California Pit. She said she found him there, but …’ Frances chewed her lips backwards and forwards.
‘Miriam Powell found him?’ He sounded amazed.
Frances nodded. ‘She smelled of coal and her head was covered in blood. Whoever cut her hair didn’t do a very good job.’
Stan mentioned this fact to Bettina that evening. They were sitting in her front room with a small glass of brandy each.
‘She was in a right state,’ Stan said to Bettina. ‘And she smelled of coal dust and her hair was shorn – not just cut – shorn!’
‘Stan, you’re making me shiver. I sometimes think that Gertrude isn’t all there, but with this happening …’ She waved her hand despairingly. ‘I wonder what Miriam did to make her mother cut off her hair.’
Stan looked at her. ‘Are you implying what I think you are?’
Bettina sighed and looked down into her glass. ‘For a while Miriam was wandering around the village looking as though she might be in the family way. Then suddenly she disappeared and when she reappeared her figure appeared back to normal. Something happened to make Gertrude cut off her daughter’s hair. I can’t help thinking …’ She paused, unable to speak the terrible truth she couldn’t help suspecting.
‘That Miriam had got into trouble and Gertrude had taken matters into her own hands.’
Bettina nodded. ‘Gertrude certainly won’t own up to it.’
The two of them sat silently, both contemplating the same thought. It had been noticed that Miriam had put on weight, but had never reached the stage where she was undeniably pregnant. Could it be that she had never reached full term? The question had to be asked whether she’d miscarried naturally, or otherwise. If the latter then Gertrude Powell had committed a grave crime that could land her in prison.
‘Nothing can be proved,’ said Bettina. Stan had to agree.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ANDREW SINCLAIR PHONED to speak to Mary about the radio broadcast she was doing the following day. ‘Seeing as the Americans have entered the war, I thought you might like to mention doughnuts. I presume you can make them, can’t you?’
Mary almost choked. ‘Yes. Of course I can make them, Mr Sinclair.’
‘Plea … a … se,’ he said, drawing out the single word, a sign that he was quite hurt. ‘I’ve told you before to call me Andrew.’
Mary sighed and rolled her eyes. Ruby noticed and mouthed Andrew’s name. Mary nodded.
‘Look … Andrew. Doughnuts require a lot of sugar and a lot of fat both to make them and deep-fry them. They have to be deep-fried or they don’t fluff out as they’re supposed to.’
‘Oh dear. I didn’t know that.’
Mary wondered how on earth he’d landed his job at the Ministry of Food. It certainly wasn’t down to his baking expertise or even cooking in general. It had to be a friend of a friend. Someone from his schooldays, perhaps.
She decided on an alternative suggestion. ‘How about straightforward apple pie? Americans love apple pie.’
‘Do they?’ Andrew sounded quite surprised.
Obviously you don’t go to the cinema very much, thought Mary, or you would know that.
‘As American as apple pie. That’s what I’ve heard said in American films,’ stated Mary, then rushed on, just in case he used any silence to ask her out again, regardless of the fact that he knew she was married.
‘There’s also pumpkin pie, of course, but that’s a bit too American. And anyway it’s a bit late for pumpkins and they’re not that plentiful in England.’
There was silence on the line as he paused to think before conceding that apple pie was a distinct possibility.
‘It’s traditional to us both. Going back to the same roots,’ Mary offered. ‘And apples are plentiful.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course they are. Now on another note, I believe Ruby is off to give a demonstration at Colman’s in Bath today, or are you doing it?’
Mary explained that it was Ruby’s turn and that it was her turn to look after the shop and the baby.
‘Ah yes. Of course. Your brother’s baby.’
He always said ‘your brother’s baby’ as though needing to reassure himself of the fact. As with her marriage, he simply couldn’t seem to grasp that she quite liked babies.
He went on to outline the events he had lined up for her and Ruby. ‘I have been asked to arrange a demonstration at RAF Locking just before Christmas, not specifically for the RAF catering staff, but for all interested parties in the area. By that I mean those involved in voluntary work such
as the WVS. It would be quite a large audience and will take place in the evening. It would also be something of a morale booster. Would you be interested?’
Mary frowned. ‘RAF Locking? I have heard of it, I think. Where exactly is it?’
‘Not far from you. Well, not terribly far. Weston-super-Mare, in fact. By the seaside. Quite bracing at this time of year I shouldn’t wonder.’
There was something about his tone that made Mary suspect he had an alternative motive. Weston-super-Mare was a train ride away. She could drive the car, but there was of course the petrol issue. Train journeys nowadays took a lot longer than they used to, plus he had specifically stated it would be an evening event.
‘Andrew, thank you very much for the opportunity, but I really don’t think—’
‘You could stay overnight! All expenses paid. I would be there to chaperone you – if you feel the need, that is—’
‘No, Andrew!’ Mary felt her face colouring up. ‘I couldn’t stay overnight. I’ve got Dad to think of; the bakery, the baby …’
‘I’ll do it.’ Ruby snatched the telephone from her sister’s grasp. ‘Andrew. I would love to cheer up the catering corps,’ she said in her cheekiest, cheeriest voice. ‘Who knows, they might know some short cuts in baking that I don’t know about.’
Silently she mouthed the words sugar, flour and fat to her sister. Everybody knew the forces got a bigger share of rations than the civilian population. Even dried egg, and goodness knows that had taken some getting used to.
Ruby sensed the hesitation on the other end of the phone. Andrew still hankered after her sister. Even though Ruby and Mary were almost identical, Andrew had not transferred his desires from the married twin to the unmarried one.
‘Well … If Mary is sure she can’t do it …’ He sounded seriously disappointed.
‘You have her willing sister,’ Ruby declared, her voice ringing with both amusement and enthusiasm. ‘Right. Now as I’ll be speaking to people who cater to the masses, I’ll be thinking simple baking enhanced with a few extra things to make them more interesting. I also think I too should bake an apple pie in honour of our American cousins entering the war. Now about that accommodation … it won’t be with some doughty old landlady who doesn’t allow dogs, babies or visitors will it?’