by Ruby Jackson
But still, thoughts came, and now they were memories of Jack, pushing aside the memories of Sam. No man had ever measured up to Sam, Daisy’s brother; Sam was wonderful. Would Jack? But he could not, for they were now hundreds of miles apart; it was possible that they might not meet again. For the first time in the months since she had left the Court, Grace remembered her almost bizarre behaviour when she had gone to the hospital to visit Harry McManus. She had addressed a nurse as ‘Sister’, thinking the woman was a nun. A nurse did not resemble a nun. It must have been a trick of the light, or the way the nurse’s uniform reminded her of a nun’s wimple.
The nun. A nun. Which nun? A faint, fleeting memory showed a picture of a small girl – herself? – sitting beside a nun on a train. Try as she might, nothing further was conjured up.
Her mind went back to those last weeks at the Court. Lord Whitefields had talked to someone in authority and a mere three weeks after his lordship’s visit, Jack had gone. Now he was somewhere, who knew where, and was being taught how to drive an ambulance. Perhaps he was already actually working in war-torn Europe.
Grace felt a shudder run through her. Sam and Jack. No, she could not bear it. She would think of something pleasant. Christmas.
So far, no one on the farm had said a word about Christmas leave. If she was given leave, where would she go? Surely, she could no longer expect to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with the parents of her school friend Sally Brewer. She smiled with remembered pleasure as she conjured up pictures of Sally and the twins, Rose and Daisy Petrie, and, of course, the Petrie boys, Ron, Phil and Sam. What fun they had had and how she had treasured being enveloped by the warmth of these families.
Grace stood up and straightened her spine. I need to write to Daisy and Sally, she thought.
The previous Christmas, her friends had delayed their celebrations to look for her. Grace almost cringed again with embarrassment as she recalled being so unhappy that she had hidden in that horrible Anderson shelter – she shuddered as she remembered the crawling earwigs – but they had found her, Sally, Daisy and Rose, and taken her to the Brewers’ for Christmas dinner.
Why had Daisy never answered Grace’s sad little letter she had written after leaving Dartford? Neither had Mrs Petrie. Grace felt herself grow ice-cold. I did write to them, didn’t I? She thought back and nodded in silent agreement with herself. Yes, she had written. There was, however, no memory of actually posting the letters.
Grace went to the window and looked out. She loved the view from it. Every day it was just a little different. Right now it was like the view on many Christmas cards: stark trees against a white landscape; in the distance an ancient stone building with candlelight gleaming from a window. In the Christmas cards she had bought at the village shop, the ancient building was a church but it was a candle in a farmhouse window that shone today. It was still, technically, daylight but soon it would be dark and the light from that candle would be visible for miles, and certainly from German bombers flying above them.
Grace had reached for the blackout curtains when she was interrupted by a cheery voice.
‘Gracie, can you away doon tae the office? Mrs Fleming wants a word.’
Grace looked up at Fiona Burns, another land girl, who had poked her head around the door to deliver the message. ‘What can she want, Fiona? I’m sure I had this afternoon off.’
‘I’m sure an’all, but I think she has a message for you. Jist think, it’ll soon be Christmas, an’ so it’ll be an auld freen saying, Merry, Merry.’
‘Thanks, I’ll run.’ Her spirits lifted. Jack. It could only be Jack, the only person, apart from Lady Alice, who knew where she was stationed. At last, he was going to tell her where he was and how he was doing. He could be anywhere in Europe where there was fighting.
She stood outside the office door for a moment, taking slow, deep breaths, before knocking.
The door was opened. Mr Fleming, the farmer, stood there and, at the table, sat his wife. ‘Sorry to interrupt your free time, Grace. Come on in and sit down.’
A few minutes later, Grace sat quietly, a cup of tea on the table in front of her, trying to come to terms with what she had just been told.
Mrs Fleming had said, rather bluntly, ‘There’s no easy way of saying this, Grace, but I’m afraid we have just had news that …’ She had swallowed and was silent for a moment.
Grace looked at her. Someone had to be dead. Sam? She wanted to scream, ‘Oh, no, please don’t let it be Sam.’
Mrs Fleming had spoken again but Grace had heard nothing.
‘Grace, are you listening? It’s your sister, I’m afraid. There was a raid last night and, I am so sorry, Grace, but your sister is dead,’ Mrs Fleming had said.
Now, Grace was trying to take in this unexpected and horrifying news. For the past four months, according to the news on the wireless, which all the girls, even the Polish ones, listened to as often as possible, Dartford had suffered almost continual bombing. Night after night, German bombers, on their way to London, or on their way back, dropped their bombs on the town. Apparently, the night before, a bomb had fallen on the High Street and Grace’s sister had died in the destruction of her shop. Such appalling waste – of property, yes, but also of opportunity. If it was true. It could not be true. Grace had heard the words; she understood what they meant but she could not take it in.
‘I’m sorry, but what was she doing there at night? She closes up at six. There must be some mistake. The shop got hit, but Megan wouldn’t have been there at night. There’s been a mistake.’
The farmer and his wife looked at each other. ‘Poor Grace,’ said Mrs Fleming. ‘Her body was found this morning. Come on, lassie, will I get you a brandy? Such dreadful news.’
‘It’s not,’ said Grace, and saw horror fighting the sympathetic expressions on their faces. How could she explain? Of course she was sorry that Megan had been killed. Had she suffered? She hoped not. But Megan had not loved her, had shown her little kindness. She had taken her in and, often, Grace had wondered why. A sense of duty? She would never know now. A blank feeling flooded over her and she felt alone, adrift. There was no one in the whole world who belonged to her or to whom she belonged. Where would she go when this job was over?
Mrs Fleming had refilled Grace’s tea cup. ‘I’ve put two sugars in, Grace. Sugar’s good for shock. His lordship is arranging for you to get some leave. A Mr Petrie will meet you at the station and take you to a Mrs Brewer. You know these people?’
Grace nodded.
‘That’s nice. Now, until some arrangements have been made for transport … and the … burial an’ all, we don’t expect you to do any work. You just take what time you need to pack some things and … well, and get your mind straight. Awful time of the year to get such bad news but, if we’re in luck, we should be able to get you on a train in a few days.’ Mr Fleming, who obviously found the conversation difficult, tried to joke: ‘An’ I’m not wanting to have to look for you all over the farm, Grace. Canteens will be crowded and, don’t ask me why, but you lassies aren’t allowed to use the Naafi ones. Some idiot as doesn’t know what you’re doing for the country thought that one up, but the missus will make you some sandwiches. Some merry Christmas.’
Grace nodded in agreement and wiped her eyes. Megan was dead. Her sister – as far as she knew, her only living relative – was dead. ‘There was so much I wanted her to tell me,’ she said, and then realised that the Flemings did not know her circumstances. ‘She’s so much older, you see,’ she said.
Was it because of Lady Alice that she was given six whole days’ leave? Six days of not hearing the shriek of the alarm clock in its tin basin at four forty-five every morning. That was nice, but there was even more pleasure in store. Grace was going … she wanted to say she was going ‘home’ for Christmas, but she had no home, not legally, that is, since Megan had died, and she, being both penniless and in the Women’s Land Army, was to be evicted from the cottage.
‘We reg
ret this action, Miss Paterson,’ the letter, received only two days after Megan’s death, had said,
but our first duty is to our client, who wants the cottage fully occupied. He understands that you will be returning to Dartford for Miss Megan Paterson’s funeral and is happy for you to occupy the premises until 31 December – (the rent having been paid until that date). You do understand that, in light of the countless displaced and homeless people arriving in England each day, our client feels obligated to let the cottage to a family.
Grace read the heartless letter over and over on the long slow journey to Dartford. How she would have loved to yell at the man who had written it, telling him that he could, with her blessing, let it immediately, but she had not even acknowledged receipt. Surely, there had to be something, anything, somewhere in that little house that would tell her more about herself and her family. She had – that is, had had – a sister, so there must have been parents and, surely, Megan would have known them.
Fred Petrie and his daughter Rose met Grace at Dartford Station. As if knowing her inner turmoil, Rose enfolded Grace in her arms, and hugged her. ‘We forwarded your card to Daisy, Grace; afraid she didn’t get leave this Christmas.’
And that was the tone of the sad, happy visit. No recriminations, merely acceptance. Grace was brought up to date on everything that had happened to both families and, by the day of Megan’s funeral, she felt as if she had never been away. It had been both pain and pleasure to sleep once more in that comfortable flat above the Petries’ shop, to know that Sam, whom she now knew to be in a prison camp somewhere in Europe, had slept in the room next door. Her dormant feelings for Sam had risen up like growling lions. How could she have thought of anyone else?
The wireless in the kitchen looked and sounded as if it had not been turned off since the last time she sat in this heart-warmingly familiar little room. Christmas carols and the new housewife’s favourite selection of songs played constantly between news broadcasts and comedy programmes. Grace, who, with the other land girls, loved listening to the wireless when there was a break from the often unending procession of farm work, thoroughly enjoyed renewing old acquaintanceships, with programmes like Music While You Work and ITMA. Lately, like many of the hard-working land girls, she had fallen into an exhausted sleep while the programmes were playing. Here, in this unostentatious family home, she unconsciously learned the words of popular songs like ‘South of the Border’ and the Petrie family favourite, ‘When You Wish Upon a Star’. Did they all hope that the song’s promise, that they would receive everything they dreamed of, would come true? Grace was sure that the safe return of the Petrie brothers was on everyone’s wish list.
‘Wear your uniform to the church, Grace, dear. Doesn’t hurt to let everyone know how you are spending the war,’ Mrs Petrie said, as the family and friends gathered in the flat before setting out for church. ‘There’s been some talk, but we’ll all be here beside you. I’m sure Megan was very nice, but you’re not Megan and that uniform says that clearly.’
Dear Mrs Petrie. Grace understood what she was trying to say. Did she really think Megan had been ‘nice’, or was it that she could not, would not, speak ill of the dead? Or was it that rumourmongers wanted to tar Grace with her sister’s brush?
Mrs Brewer reached out and touched her arm. ‘You all right, Grace? You’ve gone awfully white.’
‘I’m fine, Mrs Brewer, just thinking of absent friends – isn’t that the words people use?’
Later, she reminded herself that Sam was not the only Petrie to fight for her, and her heart sang with memories of her friends. Daisy’s still my friend, although she’s making other friends, like that girl called Charlie. I’ll tell her about Eva and Katia and the others in my next letter. She’ll be pleased.
Only once did she return to the small cottage where she had lived ever since some unknown person had brought her to Dartford and handed her over to the sister she thought she had never met before. Frightening to remember that she had been only seven years old. On the morning after Megan’s funeral, Grace decided to go, alone, to her former home. Her whole being resisted understanding why it was so important that she go back, but, apart from the knowledge that it was her duty to make the house as clean and neat as possible for incoming tenants, this was her one-and-only chance to unearth any personal documents that might be mouldering away in that miserable place. All she wanted was the simple information that everyone else seemed to take for granted. Who was she? Who were her parents? Why had she been in care of some kind? Who had put her there? Megan? But Megan had been in Dartford. Her parents? Everyone in the entire world had parents, at least in the beginning. Where were hers and why had they not wanted her? What could a little girl have done that was so wrong?
Often, over the years, she had tried to force her mind to remember something, anything, but life seemed to have started the day Megan took her to the primary school in Dartford, and Sam Petrie and his sisters had become her champions, her heroes.
Since Mrs Petrie was busy in the shop, Mrs Brewer, who worked in the evenings, offered to go to the house with her. ‘It’s not pleasant, going through a house after a death, pet. Let me help you. It won’t be hard for me because … it’s not as if I’m affected. Don’t think I’ve ever said much to Megan, certainly not what I really wanted to say, me and Flora.’
But although Grace was able to smile at the picture of these two lovely women castigating her sister, she refused her kind offer. ‘I’ll be fine and you have things to do to prepare for Christmas. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to being with everyone this year.’ She patted her friend’s shoulder gently and insisted, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.’
‘All right, dear. But, Grace, better not go down the High Street; won’t help, seeing the destruction.’
Grace had not wept at the ill-attended funeral, although she had been sad, sad more for Megan, a casualty of the constant bombing of the town, than for herself. Neither did she weep in the house, feeling more embarrassment at the untidiness and grime in the place than any other emotion. It had not been much of a home: no warm, cosy fire with two armchairs drawn up to it where the two sisters could chat and relive the events of the day.
She searched, however, and with mounting despair, for answers to her questions. Almost frantically, she struggled with drawers so full that they were difficult to open, but not one appeared to have been set aside to hold the legal documents that each person was supposed to have. Occasionally, her hopes were raised as a letter was unearthed on unusually fine quality stationery, and, even once, a parchment-like paper that had obviously been in its strict folds for many years. Her heart sank as she realised that her treasure trove consisted of letters to Megan from admirers and, to be fair, one or two from employers.
I must have had a birth certificate. I know my name and I know my date of birth. There must be papers somewhere. And Megan’s birth certificate. Where is that?
Grace rifled through papers that she found in almost every drawer in the house that did not contain Megan’s often-unwashed stockings and underwear. She slowed down and decided calmly that the best thing to do was to collect all letters and odd papers, vowing that, as soon as possible, she would study each one to see if they revealed any secrets of her own life before Dartford.
Another unpleasant task was somehow to get rid of the unwashed clothing. Grace wondered if she could bring herself to wash any of it. In her work, she was often deep in mire, surrounded by dirt, but, surely, that was clean dirt, whereas soiled underwear was not.
‘No one would want someone’s used stockings, would they?’ she asked herself. ‘Am I wrong? Is it that my feelings about Megan are clouding my judgement? Displaced women are coming into England and they have nothing. Is it right to throw perfectly good things away simply because they need to be washed?’
She made no definite decision and, finding an empty shopping bag in the scullery, she pushed all the unwashed clothing that she had gathered into
it. She would think about it later.
She took no long-last look round; there was nothing she wanted to see. Stuffing the papers into her capacious WLA shoulder bag, she hurried out into the cold December air and back to the warm sympathetic welcome of the Brewers, whom she had promised to visit. As she hurried along, she remembered Mrs Brewer’s argument as she had offered to accompany her. ‘I do wish you’d let me help you, Grace, love. Flora Petrie agrees with me, clearing a house is no easy task.’ Mrs Brewer had looked anxiously at her daughter’s friend. Grace was pale, but then she had never had much colour. Working outdoors should have brought a healthier glow. ‘At least come in for a cuppa when you’ve finished. The gas might have been turned off at the house, with the air raids and everything, so you’ll get nothing there, she had made Grace promise.’
‘Now, as Grace reached Mrs Brewer’s door, the women greeted her: ‘Stay and have a bite to eat. It’ll be lovely to have you all to ourselves. We do miss Sally so much and all those lovely Saturdays when Fred sneaked the four of you into the pictures. Weren’t those days lots of fun?’
‘Lovely fun, and we’ll have them again when this is over; we agreed to that.’
‘Can’t be the same, pet. You’re all growing up. My Sally on the stage, Daisy flying like a bird and she’s got ever such a nice boyfriend besides. Quite posh, Rose says.’
Grace did not want boyfriends to feature in the conversation and she quickly brought it back to the immediate future. ‘I’ve brought away all the documents that I could find, Mrs Brewer. I don’t want anything else from the house. Maybe some family that’s been bombed out could use the furniture, or the dishes and pots.’
‘Are you sure, pet? There’s certainly displaced families as could make use of them.’
‘Her clothes, too, Mrs Brewer.’
‘Everything, Grace? Are you really sure? She had a fur coat, you know, real rabbit. She’s a bit taller than you, but just think how nice and warm it would keep you in the fields.’ Mrs Brewer stopped. She had seen the girl shudder at the thought.