War Orphans

by Lizzie Lane

  The allotment owners came down frequently to tend their plants, taking their tools from out of their sheds to dig and weed and plant vegetables, all following the government’s entreaties to dig for victory. At the end of each allotment was a shed used by the gardeners to store their tools. All of them were well looked after, except one. It was ramshackle and neglected, and its scruffy windows looked out over a patch of tangled dead plants, thistles, nettles and elder saplings. It was made of wood, had dirty windows and a rusted corrugated iron roof. The door was lopsided and held closed by a rusty hook. She prayed it wasn’t locked.

  She’d never seen anyone there so it stood to reason that it was as abandoned as the piece of overgrown land. She made up her mind. If nobody else made use of it then she would.

  Gritting her teeth, she hugged the puppy closer, pushing the thought away that no matter what she did, the puppy still might die. First she had to warm him up and then she would gather all the things he needed – something snug to sleep in, bowls for food and water, a blanket to wrap over him . . .

  Although she had no idea how to get those things – or whether she could get them – she would do her best to save the little chap even if she had to give it all her bread and dripping!

  She looked down inside her coat, glad to see the puppy nestled against her chest. Its eyes were still closed. Fearing he might have died on the short journey from the stream to the shed, she put her finger up to his noise. To her great delight she could feel him breathing, his little heart beating time against her chest. His body felt warm now, not icy as it had been. She smiled, thrilled to see him sleeping so contentedly.

  She was loath to disturb the sleeping bundle, but disturb she must. The hook holding the door closed was very rusty and she would need both hands to open it.

  Carefully, she took off her coat then her cardigan, first one arm then the other, and wrapped it around the sleeping puppy. Once that was done and the puppy still did not wake up, she placed him in a patch of long grass growing between the shed and the flowers and put her coat back on.

  Just as she’d guessed, the rusty hook was difficult to budge. Again and again she tugged it, doing her utmost to push it up from the metal eye it slotted into.

  Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes and she muttered bad words under her breath, words her stepmother sometimes used when she was angry after coming home late, calling somebody a bloody sod, a bastard only out for what he could get – whatever that meant.

  The sudden sound of the puppy whimpering drew her attention. She fell down beside him, stroking his silky little head just as she used to stroke Lottie’s.

  ‘Please don’t die,’ she whispered to him, her heart breaking at the prospect that he might. ‘Don’t die. Don’t die!’

  A few spots of rain began to fall. Joanna sprang to her feet. The puppy needed a safe hiding place and she was going to give it to him. Taking a deep breath, she used both hands to tug at the hook, shaking the door, kicking it then tugging again, trying to shift it upwards and out of the eye.

  Her hands were too soft and she was too weak. She realised she needed something hard to hit it out of the clasp.

  A quick look around and she saw a trowel with a wooden handle and a metal blade. She picked it up and with the back of the metal blade gave the hook an upward blow. It sounded so loud she looked around, fearing somebody might have heard.

  There was nobody there, just rows of cabbages, leeks, beans and other vegetables dripping raindrops onto the ground. Despite their bedraggled wetness, they had a friendly look, hiding her as they were from the surrounding world of red-brick houses and privet hedges. Their rustling in the breeze seemed to be cheering her on to do her very best: Give the hook a really good bash!

  This time the hook moved upwards, not by much, but enough to encourage her to hit it again.

  Screwing up her face, gritting her teeth and using every ounce of strength she possessed, she bashed it again. This time, to her great delight, it sprang upwards. The door budged enough for her to slide her fingers through and pull it. Bending down, she picked up the puppy snuggled in her old cardigan and slipped into the gap.

  Inside the shed was quite dark, light trying its best to break through the curtain of cobwebs covering the cracked windowpanes.

  Joanna didn’t like spiders at the best of times. There were some in the coalhouse and her stepmother took great glee in reminding her of the fact each time she threw her in there.

  ‘Big and black with long hairy legs,’ she would cackle, like a witch.

  Joanna’s eyes opened wide. The spiders were mostly confined to the window. Small round shapes and bigger ones with long thin legs hung in the webs, along with flies and other insects all forming the spiders’ larders.

  Joanna shivered. Only the fact that the puppy needed somewhere safe to stay persuaded her to be brave. He mattered far more than anything.

  ‘They won’t hurt you,’ she said to herself over and over again, in an effort to make herself believe it was true. Of course it was true, but that didn’t make seeing them there easier to bear.

  Dragging her eyes away from the spiders, she took stock of the rest of the interior. A rough table stood against the wall underneath a window piled with old seed trays and plant pots. Shelves lined the opposite wall, and beneath them garden hoes, spades and forks hung from hooks.

  There were a few galvanised-steel buckets plus an old deckchair and wooden seed boxes, some of them quite large and looking as though they might once have been part of a chest of drawers. There were also old sacks that might once have contained daffodil and tulip bulbs. These were folded neatly and placed on top of the table in front of the window.

  Joanna hugged the sleeping puppy closer. She heard him murmur contentedly and sensed he was beginning to stir. ‘Just a minute,’ she whispered, her chin resting gently on his head. ‘I’m going to make you a bed so you’ll be warm and comfortable and can sleep all you want. Will that be all right?’

  The puppy snuffled weakly. His eyes remained closed.

  Holding him beneath one arm, she dragged one of the larger seed boxes from the other side of the room and pushed it beneath the table. At least that way the tabletop would shelter him from the draught coming through the cracked window.

  After that she filled it with old sacks and once that was done she placed the puppy in it. He didn’t stir. In a way she wanted him to wake up, look up at her and wag his little tail. In another she wanted him to sleep so he could regain his strength.

  Her biggest fear was that he was very hungry. She’d given him warmth, but food would keep him alive and she had nothing to give him.

  ‘What will I do?’

  Her chest felt tight and tears misted her eyes. She’d lost Lottie. She didn’t want to lose the puppy.

  Her despair turned to anger, anger with grownups, anger with cruelty and anger that she’d had to bring the poor little creature here instead of a nice comfortable place by a living-room fire.

  ‘And just look at this place! It’s filthy.’

  Just as she said it, the sun peeped out from behind a cloud and a ray of sunshine shone through a chink in the dirty window. Though dust motes swam in that ray of sunshine to her it was almost magical, as though her mother, her real mother, was saying, ‘You can clean it up. Sweep away those spiders’ webs. Spiders won’t hurt you. The puppy will sleep until morning. He knows he’s safe here.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sally Hadley watched the last child leave the school gate before making her way there herself.

  The plight of her brightest pupil had preyed on her mind most of the day. Joanna Ryan was hardly the only child with a far from ideal home life, but there was more than that going on. There’d been no love in her stepmother’s eyes, only selfishness and the bitter twist of envy on her lips. Whatever had possessed Joanna’s father to marry her? she asked herself. Probably because he wanted a mother for his child; it wasn’t easy coping with a child and holding down a job. Money had t
o be made if they weren’t to end up destitute.

  ‘A penny for your thoughts.’

  She looked up into the concerned expression of Arnold Thomas, headmaster of Victoria Park boys’ school.

  ‘A pupil,’ she said laughingly. ‘What else?’

  ‘Care to discuss your concerns over a cup of tea at the park?’

  Sally glanced at her watch. Her father would be his usual grumpy self, so why not be an hour late home? It would serve him right.

  Arnold Thomas was married and had been headmaster for about five years. He was well respected and, although he seemed to enjoy his work, there was a sadness about him. His wife was an invalid and confined to a wheelchair and he had to look after her as well as hold down his very responsible job.

  Despite being bespectacled, he wasn’t a bad-looking man in a homely kind of way. He was about forty-five, pink complexioned, with wispy sandy-coloured hair peppered with grey and an amiable manner. His eyes were a chill blue behind horn-rimmed glasses.

  Roses spattered the wallpaper in the Park Tearooms and oak-backed chairs were set in groups of four at each and every table. Sally was about to sit at a table near the window so she could look out.

  ‘Best if we sit at the back,’ offered Arnold with a nervous smile as he took hold of her elbow. ‘There’s quite a draught from the door opening and closing.’

  Sally followed him to the table he preferred but couldn’t help smiling to herself. Arnold was clearly embarrassed to be seen with her, hence sitting at the back of the tearoom away from passers-by. Not that there were many. Poor Arnold. She couldn’t help wondering at his home life. Still, no point in starting unnecessary gossip.

  They waited until the waitress had set two cups of tea and a buttered teacake on the table. The teacake was for Arnold. ‘I have to cook my own meal when I get home. This will help sustain me until then,’ he explained. ‘So are you going to tell me the essence of your thoughts?’

  Sally sighed, folded her arms and looked down into her tea. Arnold had added milk to it, but she had declined sugar.

  ‘Very wise. It’s a distinct advantage if you can go without. Sugar will be first to go on ration.’

  She smiled weakly before explaining what she had on her mind.

  ‘It’s about one of my pupils. I feel I could get very involved with her life if I’m not careful.’

  He nodded at her in understanding. ‘I take it her home life is not exactly ideal. Father away is he?’

  ‘Yes. She’s been left in the care of her stepmother.’

  ‘Ah! The wicked stepmother! Every good fairy story should have one.’

  Sally knew Arnold was attempting to be reassuring and she had to smile at the comparison. However, wicked stepmothers between the pages of storybooks were a world away from the real thing.

  ‘I find this particular stepmother quite objectionable. She has cruelty and selfishness written all over her.’

  Arnold looked at her over the top of his teacup as he took a sip, wincing as he did so. ‘Weak but wet,’ he muttered. ‘Oh well . . .’ Yesterday’s sweet strong brew was no more. Everyone was cutting down. ‘I’m glad you confided in me, but you know very well what I’m about to say.’

  She nodded and replaced her teacup back in its flowery saucer. ‘Miss Burton has already told me not to get involved.’

  ‘It’s best not to.’

  Arnold looked at her longingly, disappointed that she didn’t seem to notice how he felt about her. He had never broached the subject of how much he liked her. Neither had he told her that he and his ailing wife despised each other. His wife had once been the love of his life. It had come as a cruel blow when her illness had affected her limbs until she could no longer walk and had to have almost everything done for her. Losing her independence had changed her; the loving woman had been replaced by one he no longer recognised.

  It was because of his wife that he didn’t go out much, not because he didn’t want to but because she’d cause a scene if he did.

  Their relationship had become something of a battle and was now the bane of his life.

  At first when the more intimate part of their life had ceased, he’d been philosophical, but as time went on he sorely missed the physical side of their relationship. He still wanted that intimacy but had to content himself with fantasies or, on those rare occasions when she let him out, he would go to the seedier side of the city where what they called ‘French Fancies’ were hidden beneath the counter, black-and-white photographs of naked women.

  It was all he could do to feed his yearnings. In the meantime she was his wife and he would stick by her.

  However, there were times when he thought about what he would do when she was gone – as she inevitably would. The doctors had assured him of that.

  Sally had gorgeous auburn hair and his wife was dark, but ultimately they were out of the same mould. They were both tall and graceful. If ever he should wish to remarry, Sally Hadley would be the woman he would propose to. They were of the same profession, both intelligent and well educated. She would be his soulmate.

  Sometimes he dreamed of her at night until his wife nudged him in the ribs, demanding a glass of water or assistance to be taken to the toilet.

  He continued to gaze at Sally’s face, tuning himself back into what she was saying.

  ‘The father is away fighting, of course, but I’m not sure Mrs Ryan is spending her time keeping the home fires burning. She’s not that type.’

  Arnold placed its cup back in the saucer. ‘Are you sure you’re not letting your prejudices get the better of you?’

  ‘Absolutely! Joanna has gradually looked more and more neglected since her father went away and I’m sure she’s not being fed half the time.’

  Arnold fingered a cigarette from a tin case and regarded her as he lit it. Sally didn’t smoke so he didn’t bother to offer her one.

  ‘Perhaps we should be contacting the children’s welfare officer up at the council offices. If the case is proved, the child might have a better life placed with foster parents.’

  Eyes downcast and looking thoughtful, Sally fingered her teacup. ‘I’m not sure if that would be the right course, Arnold. I’m just not sure.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Goodness. Look at the time. I have to go.’

  She fumbled for the clasp of her handbag so she could pay for her tea. Arnold’s hand touched hers.

  ‘Please. Let me.’

  She looked up at him, saw his expression and immediately knew how he felt about her. She kept her voice calm as though she’d noticed nothing. ‘Are you sure?’

  He nodded. ‘Although times are hard I can just about manage to buy a colleague a cup of tea.’

  Again the warm smile, the kindness in his eyes, plus the other look, the one she couldn’t truly read but didn’t quite trust.

  Sally headed for the door first, Arnold right behind her.

  ‘You really are excellent company,’ he said to her, at the same time patting her posterior.

  Sally froze. ‘I’d rather you didn’t do that.’

  He blushed profusely. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to.’

  She glared at him. Of course he had. ‘Please don’t do that again.’

  Once outside he walked her a few hundred yards along the main road.

  At first they both remained silent. So much for professionalism, thought Sally, her cheeks burning.

  It was him who broke the silence, mentioning the likelihood of him landing the job of air-raid warden for Jubilee Road.

  ‘I do have to run it past Miranda first, as it does mean her being left alone a lot at night.’

  ‘Very commendable of you,’ said Sally a trifle sarcastically.

  ‘My age, my job and the fact that my wife is an invalid means I won’t be called up. Still, I have to do my bit somehow.’

  ‘I understand you fought in the last war,’ said Sally, glad to change the subject.

  A haggard, haunted look suddenly dimmed Arnold’s customary cheerfulness.

>   ‘Gallipoli.’

  ‘Was it bad?’

  His expression turned grimmer. ‘A blood bath. I was a medical orderly.’ He flexed his fingers before putting his hands back in his pockets. ‘I can still feel the stickiness of the blood. Such a lot of blood . . .’

  Sally walked on silently and he did the same. They said goodbye at the junction of St Luke’s Road and St John’s Lane. They shook hands. He held on to hers just too long. She snatched it away.

  ‘Sally! I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘Goodbye, Arnold.’

  She turned sharply away, her shoulders rigid. She was overwhelmed by the desire to put distance between them. No more after-school cups of tea at the Park Tearooms, or anywhere else for that matter.

  Arnold strolled on towards Redcatch Road where private houses swept upwards to an area of green grass recently made over for yet more allotments. Jubilee Road was a left-hand turning halfway up.

  Sally headed for the Victorian bay villa she shared with her father where they had a view of the park from the front room.

  She wondered where her father would be and what he’d been up to all day. Hopefully he’d taken her advice and gone to the allotment. She sincerely hoped so.

  As usual, the heavy wooden front door with its ivory porcelain knocker was wide open. It was only firmly closed at night or if it was raining. Only the inner door remained closed all day regardless of the weather. The dark blue glass of the inner door was trimmed with a red border and a cut glass rosette decorated each corner. The light shining through the door from outside threw blue-and-red patterns over the wall of the interior hall, shimmering like a line of dancers as she pushed it open.

  ‘Dad!’

  There was no response. She went into each room expecting to see him asleep in his favourite armchair, his freckled hands resting on his newspaper, the latter spread wide over his lap.

  She called him once or twice more, then retraced her steps to the hall door and out into the street.

  She spotted him immediately sitting on the park wall, his back against the railings.