Sugar and Spice

by Ruth Hamilton

  A scream from Elsie had Anna jumping out of her chair. What on earth had they done now?

  The question was answered almost immediately. Kate and Rebecca stumbled into the living room. They could walk. Oh, God, they were on the move. A whole new chapter stretched in front of Anna now – they would be able to get her toys, her books, her drawings. She would ask Uncle Bert for shelves they couldn’t reach.

  Elsie came in behind them. ‘On the same day, too,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘They learn from each other,’ was Miss Burke’s contribution to the occasion. ‘Splendid.’

  Splendid? They would be through the hedges, under the feet of cows, up and down the lane, round corners – it was going to be a nightmare.

  ‘Isn’t that wonderful?’ Elsie dried her eyes.

  Anna had seen enough. She smiled politely at Miss Burke. ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘I’m due up at Holcroft Farm to watch the harvest coming home. My friend invited me, and Uncle Bert will bring me back.’ After glaring at the twins, she left the scene at a speed that precluded any dissuasion.

  She ran all the way, stopping only when a stitch in her side made running painful. Linda would understand. Linda was usually busy, but she was definitely on Anna’s side.

  When she got to the yard, there was quite a party going on. The harvest was almost gathered, and the rain was holding off. Men in clogs sparked ironclad soles on cobbles while a concertina played. Linda was hopping about with a handsome lad, while even Mrs Mellor from Berkeley Hall was tapping a foot as she sat on a stool. Anna was swept up by Uncle Bert, who twirled her round until she felt quite dizzy.

  ‘Is that Linda’s boyfriend?’ Anna whispered.

  Bert grinned. ‘Not if Iris Mellor has owt to do with it. She’ll have him down for marrying somebody with land and money.’

  ‘Linda has land and money, Uncle Bert.’

  ‘Has she? Oh, well that’s all right, then. Mind, they’d have to make a long road between here and Essex to join them together.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Anna chided playfully. ‘This is her grandad’s farm, isn’t it?’ All the same, she felt a bit sad. Linda usually played with her, but she was currently fastened to a young man who gazed at her adoringly. Linda was letting her down.

  ‘Uncle Bert?’

  ‘What, love?’

  ‘They’ve started walking. The twins. Can I have some high-up shelves and cupboards? I don’t want them getting hold of my writing pads and drawing books. And I’d like a lock on my bedroom door.’

  He set her down on a bale of hay. ‘You can’t have a lock in case of fire. There’s no way of getting away from them, lass. They’re your sisters, and that’s the end of it, nothing more to be said or done. I mean, I understand. Our Arthur used to drive me twice round the bend, but I got used to it. You have to try, Anna. You’re the big girl – they’re the babies.’

  ‘I know. I’m horrible, aren’t I?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nay, lass. You’re honest – that’s your main trouble. You see it, you say it, and you suffer for it. Like we keep telling you, you’ve had a tough time what with your mam, then your dad off fighting, us moving you up here, two new babies – not easy for any of us.’

  ‘No. But it would be easier without them, wouldn’t it?’

  He sighed. ‘Anna, they exist. They’re a fact of life, and they’re ours till your dad gets home.’

  She knew she was being selfish, that she wanted all the love, not just some of it. What she failed to comprehend was that her reaction was normal under the circumstances, that she had lost both her primary carers and had been landed with a pair of sisters for whom she had to take partial responsibility.

  ‘Too young, but too old,’ said Bert, not for the first time.

  They walked homeward, Anna disappointed because Linda hadn’t spoken to her, Bert wondering what the two little beggars would get up to now that they could walk. They were naughty – Anna was right about that. But they were babies and they had to be given a chance.

  ‘I think I’ll join the navy,’ Anna muttered as Bert opened the gate.

  He grinned. With such a sense of humour, she wouldn’t go far wrong . . .

  It was murder in full, living colour. There was nothing black-and-white silent movie about life in the Dixon house once Kate and Beckie were on the move. There was sometimes an element of Keystone Kops in the lunacy that occurred, but the speed at which the pair operated defied science. They climbed, they fell, they screamed, they escaped and, with the efficiency of those long-ago Egyptian plagues, they destroyed all in their path.

  Poor Bert made a gate for the bottom of the stairs, gates for doors front and back so that the house might be less than stifling, put a padlock on the coal bucket lid, and built new fencing for the back garden. The chickens were no longer safe, so the poor creatures had to be cooped up when the twins were outside, and were allowed out in their wire run only when the menaces had been removed from the scene.

  Anna went to live upstairs. She emerged for baths, school, lavatory, food and drink, but the rest of her time was spent in happy solitary confinement. She felt sorry for Auntie Elsie and Uncle Bert, but there was little she could do to help. The German army, air force and navy paled into insignificance, because the real enemy was now within, without and all around like a London fog.

  She heard them, though. ‘Aga borra Anna?’ one would ask.

  ‘Anna borra,’ the reply usually came.

  It was plain that they were daft or foreign, because they weren’t speaking English. Perhaps they were Germans sent to spy? Even so, Anna kept reminding herself of the promise made to her dead mother. She was supposed to be educating her sisters. They had been hard enough to catch when crawling, but now, containment was virtually impossible.

  She sat on her bed reading a fairy tale book. But she couldn’t follow the story, because she felt guilty. Uncle Bert was at work, while Auntie Elsie, who did all the cooking, cleaning, washing and ironing, was stuck with Those Two. She put down her book, then gazed through the window. Something had to be done and, as no one else seemed prepared to do it, it was up to herself to make something happen before poor Auntie Elsie ended up in the graveyard. Think, think, think.

  She tidied her hair, walked downstairs, opened the little gate and stepped into the living room. They weren’t here. They were probably in the kitchen or in the back garden with Auntie Elsie. Right. ‘Here goes,’ she muttered before letting herself out of the house.

  With every step she took away from Weavers Row, she concentrated on what she had to do. It had to be done properly and carefully, or she might do more damage than good. She needed to be brief, polite and successful.

  A young woman answered the door.

  ‘I need to speak to Mrs Mellor,’ said Anna as bravely as she could manage. ‘It’s urgent.’

  She was taken to a sort of library where Mrs Mellor sat, telephone receiver in one hand, cigarette in the other. She motioned for Anna to sit at a small table near the window. Then she yelled at the phone. ‘Don’t tell me there’s a war on, because I have noticed. I am overcrowded by five and I need more help.’ She threw the phone into its cradle. ‘Red bloody tape,’ she muttered before turning to Anna. ‘Hello, young lady.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Mellor. They aren’t all babies here, are they?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You have some that can walk and all that?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We have little ones of all ages here. So. How can I help you?’

  Anna took a deep breath, then launched into the speech she had prepared. She told Mrs Mellor about her mother dying, her father in the army, the twins, Auntie Elsie and Uncle Bert. ‘I hope I’m not being cheeky, but they’re making Auntie ill because she’s a bit old for them.’ They were making everybody ill, but that factor was best left out of the equation. ‘So I wondered whether they could come for a few hours every day – like to a nursery, because I don’t want Auntie Elsie to wear out and die.’

  ‘Neither do I,
’ replied Mrs Mellor. ‘She’s here Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and she’s a damned good worker. Forget the damned – you’re not supposed to use that word.’

  Anna giggled. ‘I can work for you if you want,’ she offered. ‘Like with the older children – I can read to them and show them games.’ She decided to allow this woman to set one foot inside the truth. Through a small chink in her armour, Anna disclosed the fact that the twins spoke a strange language. ‘Playing with other young walkers, Mrs Mellor, they might start to talk in English.’ She paused. ‘Please. I’ll do anything.’

  ‘I know you will, child. You’re a good girl. The answer is yes. They may come every weekday morning at first, then for a full day. We have a trained nursery teacher . . .’ She paused and glared at the phone. ‘And we’ll soon have more help once I strangle the authorities with their own red tape.’

  Anna walked home on this glorious September day. Trees were just beginning to turn, some yellows, some reds, some pale browns. Auntie Elsie was safe, though she might take some convincing. The twins would not be sleeping in an institution; they would merely be attending a nursery. It made sense, but would the Dixons see it that way? ‘And it won’t do me much good,’ she muttered to herself. ‘They’ll be there when I get home from school.’

  Anna walked in to chaos. They had broken up a newly-baked loaf of bread and scattered it hither and thither. Elsie was in a rocking chair. She was also in despair. The newly-arrived Anna caught up with the twins and smacked their hands hard.

  ‘NO!’ screamed Elsie.

  The twins didn’t cry. Beckie spoke to Kate, ‘Anna bogga borra.’

  Kate replied. ‘Anna borra,’ and they laid themselves on the hearth rug and fell asleep.

  Anna sat down. ‘I’ve sorted it out,’ she said airily. ‘Someone had to do something, and they’re my sisters. So I’ve done it.’

  ‘What have you been and gone and done now?’ Elsie wailed. ‘Can’t you see I’ve enough on without—’

  ‘They start nursery next week. Up at the hall. They’ll still live here, but you’ll get a few hours without them. It’s best, Auntie Elsie.’

  Elsie sighed. This child had just walked in on landed gentry and negotiated with a woman who was seen as a pillar of the community. The kiddy was brave, and she never ceased to surprise those closest to her. ‘Thank you, Anna,’ she managed while fighting to hold back tears. ‘They are getting a bit much.’

  ‘They always were a bit much,’ came Anna’s dry reply. ‘You need time to do all your jobs. They might get better when they have to mix with other babies.’

  They would have to get better, Anna concluded inwardly. School and mingling with her peers had taught her that co-operation and blending in were important. If a person wanted to stand out, it was better to do it through good work, not by being different and badly behaved.

  ‘Do you think they’ll be all right?’ asked Elsie anxiously.

  All right or not, they were going, because Auntie Elsie needed rest. If the twins behaved badly, they would be dealt with. There was something about Mrs Iris Mellor that spoke volumes about her attitude – she would suffer no fools. ‘Don’t worry,’ Anna advised. ‘It’ll be the best thing that ever happened to them.’ Satisfied with herself, she returned to her room and to Hansel and Gretel. The children in the story were twins. They tried to demolish a whole gingerbread house! Clearly, this behaviour came with the territory . . .

  The two young MacRaes fitted in perfectly. After just one morning of tantrums, they calmed down like everyone else and, apart from eating a bit of plasticine and throwing some sand, they settled, listened and learned. When the nursery teacher got out the words and things baskets, she discovered that they could read. She held up an apple, and Kate gave her the appropriate word; she held up the word ‘duck’, and Beckie brought a yellow plastic bird to her. It seemed that the occasional lessons forced upon them by their older sister had left a few deposits.

  They were also fully capable of understanding English and were able to speak some of it. Yet they continued to communicate with each other in a language that defied interpretation by the rest of the world, and were judged by their teacher to be extraordinarily intelligent. She was heard to opine that infants who created languages were going to be adept at most subjects, particularly languages ancient and modern. Anna, who helped at the nursery when she could, kept her mouth shut, because she thought her sisters were daft, and judged the staff to be sorely misguided.

  But one evening after school, the twins invaded Anna’s bedroom. Kate smiled. ‘Anna borra,’ she said sweetly. ‘Please, Anna borra.’

  ‘Anna borra borra,’ echoed Beckie.

  ‘What’s borra?’ Anna asked. She was annoyed with herself for leaving the door open.

  ‘Pretty,’ they chimed in unison.

  ‘And what’s bogga?’ asked the older child.

  ‘Swearing,’ grinned Kate. ‘You read now.’

  They climbed onto the bed, one at each side of her. This time, they tore no pages, and even pointed out some of the words. She began to read aloud, moving an index finger under lines of print, leaving out the odd word and trying not to smile when they struggled to fill in the missing letters. But they managed. ‘You are clever,’ she told them. ‘So why act daft?’

  The reply was simple. Both answered, ‘Bogga.’

  To that, Anna found no answer.

  Five

  We are both making lists now, so I have managed to make Susan almost as daft as I am. Her lists are more sensible than mine, though. She is collecting information on child development and is working hard at stimulating Stephen to give him the chance to catch up. I am putting together three or four pages of Den’s incomings and savings, all his misdemeanours, all his faults, all stocks and shares. Crab lice in a matchbox have become a bit crumbly, but Juliet took them away and had them identified. I am guessing that there would not have been a line-up in some police station, since one crab louse looks much like another as long as no one wears a hat or a false moustache.

  She lays down her pen and stares through the French windows. ‘I think he’ll be all right, Anna. Probably not top of the class, but nowhere near the bottom, either.’ She looks at me. ‘Have you told Juliet that you inherited a small fortune and two houses?’

  I shrug. ‘Might have mentioned it.’

  Bert and Elsie bought the house next door with some of their winnings. If adapted, the two cottages together would make a very nice place. I suppose I’ll have to cough up and admit to having an income from rents, plus a decent inheritance. Honesty is the best policy, isn’t it, Auntie Elsie?

  A double funeral, double the flowers, double the tears. Going into the house afterwards was awful. Empty teapot for the first time ever, no cooking smells, no balls of wool and half-knitted garments. At the funeral, no Katherine, no Rebecca. I avoid contact for the most part, but I had to let them know that their foster parents had died. Nothing.

  As predicted, both are linguists. Katherine teaches Latin, Greek, French, Spanish and German. Her professorship at Oxford is attached to Greek. Rebecca translates for several big businesses and for governments, lives abroad for months on end, has a flat in Paris, occasionally stays in London with her twin. On the surface, they are successful, happy and wealthy women, but no one knows them. I know some of their story, but not everything. I shiver.

  ‘You cold?’

  ‘Not really. I think my sisters just walked over my grave yet again.’

  ‘They don’t do graves,’ replies Susan. ‘They certainly didn’t do the poor Dixons’ grave, did they?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What happened with you and your sisters?’ she asks.

  I smile. ‘If we had a week, I’d tell you half of it. Better wait till the book comes out and they prosecute me.’ They wouldn’t dare, and I know it, but I carry on with the pretence. ‘In fact, Susan, you won’t need to read – just hang on until they get me in Crown Court for libel or whatever.’

  She sw
allows audibly. ‘Is that the book on your list?’

  ‘Yes. It probably won’t get written. I’m guilty, too. I ran away and left Elsie and Bert to deal with . . .’ With monsters. ‘With my sisters.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  I am so tired. ‘To my dad.’

  ‘But what—’

  ‘Not today, Susan.’ I don’t want to think about my dad, because that’s another painful place in my soul. The way he was when he came home from the war, the issue of what he had become gradually dawning on the child I used to be. My father was alive, yet I had lost him.

  ‘Was it ever easy, Anna?’

  ‘Some days were absolutely wonderful,’ I tell her. ‘And that’s the truth for almost all of us. But yes, it was difficult on the whole.’ Homework missing, teachers disappointed in me, my clothes ruined, the thefts from shops, the terrible rows that came to blows . . .

  She crosses the room and hugs me. She is the mother I lost, the Elsie I loved, the daughter I should have had twenty years ago. Like me, she is bruised, but not quite broken; like me, she is almost indestructible. I need her, and she needs me. God has usually sent someone to help me through the bad times; Susan and Stephen can assist with the second lot of twins in whose upbringing I have been forced to play a part. This time, I know it has to come out right. Surely it will? Please tell me it will.

  This is crazy. Marie, Susan’s mother, is the only one of us displaying sense, because she has stayed in my house with the three babies. Cramped into the tiny interior of our Maureen’s Mini, Susan, our Maureen and I are kangarooing down the Hesford bypass towards St Helens, metropolis of the area. The car is unwell. When started, it coughs like an asthmatic with secondary emphysema. It doesn’t like bumps in the road, takes corners with great reluctance and a lot of fuss, has poor brakes and bad tyres. We are, I conclude, in a dangerous situation.