War Orphans

by Lizzie Lane

  There was milk, tea and enough sugar. She sliced the bread, scraped some butter on each slice, then went to the larder.

  Because of her dislike of all things fishy, the tin of pilchards had been pushed to the back of the larder. Bottles, tins and packages were moved around the shelf like chessmen on a board, but no matter how hard she looked there was no sign of the pilchards.

  Elspeth frowned. The excitement she’d been feeling was severely dented. Her dismay intensified when she realised the only suitable sandwich filler was a piece of mouldy cheese. Arnold was fed up with cheese. What could she do?

  Not a cheese sandwich. He was well and truly fed up with that, but how about if she toasted the cheese?

  Taking a deep breath she picked up the two teacups and went into the living room, her beaming smile ably hiding the burgeoning disquiet she was feeling inside.

  ‘Arnold, I am so sorry. It seems as though my daughter had eaten the pilchards for her supper.’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘You know how it is. I’m working all these hours so she has to fend to herself to a great extent.’

  He nodded and waved his hands, a sign she took as dismissal of the problem. ‘We all have to manage with what we have. Forget what I said. Cheese will do nicely.’

  Thank goodness for that! She almost felt like singing. He certainly wasn’t one to be inconvenient! All the same she made the instant decision to still go one step further.

  ‘How about cheese on toast? At least it’s warm and I can mix a bit of butter in it and top it with . . .’ She laughed. ‘Silly me! I was going to say I could top it with bacon, but you’ve already said you don’t eat meat.’

  ‘Cheese on toast would be very welcome. And thanks for the tea.’

  She made him two pieces of cheese on toast even though it would leave her short for the morning. Although she had considered rewarding Joanna for having the place looking so clean and prepared for visitors, it was Joanna who would have to go without. No toast. She would have to make do with porridge

  Oh well, she thought to herself as she listened to Arnold go on and on about his job. He didn’t seem very put out not to be eating pilchards for his supper. Veiling her thoughts she listened with a smile on her face while in her mind she made more plans to get to know him a bit better.

  ‘Bit of music?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘And another cup of tea?’

  He handed her his cup and saucer. ‘Only if you can spare it.’

  ‘Of course I can. My daughter doesn’t drink tea so we have enough.’

  ‘Does she go to my school?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought you were the headmaster of the boys’ school?’

  ‘I am. I meant does she go to Victoria Park?’

  ‘Yes. She does.’

  Elspeth handed him his second cup of tea. She’d used the same tea leaves, merely adding water to the pot and it a good stir. She’d also poured into his cup first, ensuring he would get the strongest.

  ‘Is she doing well?’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t really say. She never tells me anything about school, and quite frankly she is a bit wild. Sometimes I just can’t break through. In my opinion she needs a bit more discipline than she’s getting. A few raps across the knuckles never did me any harm when I was at school.’

  Arnold looked down into his tea as he took a slurp. ‘That’s a pity. We don’t like inflicting corporal punishment, even on the boys. I’m sorry to hear your daughter has gone off the rails. Still, there are places you can put her where they are trained to deal with problematic children.’

  ‘Are they very far away?’

  Arnold shook his head and drained his tea before answering. ‘The children live in. It’s a wrench sometimes for both the children and the parents, but in certain situations it’s all for the best.’

  Her face fell. Arnold winced.

  ‘Elspeth, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  Her eyes were very wide and bright and there was an odd serene expression on her heavily made-up face.

  ‘You didn’t, Arnold. You could never do that. And as you say having her sent away might do her some good. Sad but true.’

  The sigh she heaved was too intense to be real, but Arnold didn’t seem to notice. He was too worried he might have upset her.

  The fact was his life had become more lonely and routine over the past few years. His job lasted most of the day. The time he spent with his wife when she stayed awake long enough to listen to the details of his day and relate the details of hers, such as it was, was minimal. It wasn’t that he had actively sought the company of a woman. He’d just needed a little company and some time away from his home that smelled of carbolic, disinfectant and sickness. Something was bound to break and, although he had held his natural urges at bay, he wanted company, and when he was at his lowest ebb, along came Elspeth.

  ‘Shall we meet again?’ she asked him as she handed him his hat and helped him into his overcoat.

  He looked a little guilty. ‘Well. It’s been a wonderful evening, but . . . I wouldn’t want people to talk . . .’

  Elspeth pressed a finger against his mouth.

  ‘We’re just friends. That’s all.’

  The tension left his face. ‘In that case I see no reason not.’

  Whatever guilt he might be feeling, she thought she knew the antidote. But not yet. She told herself to give him a little more time.

  He paused before she opened the living-room door and looked down into her face. ‘Thank you again for a lovely evening. I’ve really appreciated your company.’

  Her bright red lips spread in a smile that displayed nicotine-stained teeth.

  ‘You’re welcome. I enjoyed it too. Goodnight,’ she whispered, keen for her neighbours not to hear as she switched off the light before opening the door.

  Arnold said goodbye in similarly hushed tones. He had no wish to be seen frequenting the house of a woman who was not his wife.

  And then he was gone. She couldn’t watch him striding off down the path because of the darkness and there was no point in waving. The night took him.

  Smiling to herself she ran her hand down the closed door. Everything had gone very well. Very well indeed, though it was a shame about the pilchards.

  The smile faded from her face at the thought of them. She’d told Joanna to have cheese on toast for supper. Obviously the child had fancied the pilchards – the tin of pilchards that Arnold Thomas would have enjoyed.

  The sparkle that had lit her eyes was replaced by a hard look that failed to reflect any light at all. The corners of her mouth turned down. Joanna had defied her. Luckily she had charmed Arnold into eating cheese on toast and he’d seemed genuinely pleased with her offering. But that was hardly the point. From the very start of her relationship with the child’s father, she had deeply resented the child. She had wanted a man to herself, but marrying Tom meant she would have a roof over her head and three square meals a day, unlike where she had come from.

  From a very young age she had lived on the streets, too scared to go home to her drunken father and her violent brothers. There had been no question of procuring a respectable job. She had been trained to live on her wits, to smile at the stupid sailors and Lascars that came aboard ships to Tiger Bay, Cardiff. She’d known what they wanted, but had been swift on her feet. Sometimes she had stolen their money and legged it before their befuddled brains realised what she was doing. Sometimes she exchanged the money they offered for her body.

  Fed up with her life Elspeth had taken it on her head to strive for better things. She wanted nice clothes and a roof over her head that wasn’t letting in the rain. She’d also wanted a man who wouldn’t beat her if she refused to go out and sell her body on the streets.

  Just a few months after running away and coming to Bristol, she was pretty well set up. She had a job as a bar maid in a pub called The Hatchet in Bristol city centre.

  The customers had liked the singsong Welsh lilt of her
voice and her sweet voice.

  Her hair had been mousy back then and her skin clear. The landlord she worked for had queried whether she was old enough to serve behind a bar. Not wishing to lose her job she’d dyed her hair and used more makeup. The overall effect was to make her look older. Nobody questioned her age again.

  There had been no shortage of suitors. Young as she was, she knew the difference between those who were genuine and those who wanted merely a bit of fun.

  Then she’d met Tom. She had recognised at once a lonely man who missed his wife and had a guilt complex about how best to look after the child. He accepted that a man alone was useless at being a mother as well as a father. Recognising a man in need of a companion rather than straightforward sex, Elspeth decided to reel him in.

  She’d told him she was from a small Welsh village in the Wye Valley and that she had no living relatives. ‘Died in the mines you see.’ She wasn’t sure there were any mines in the village of Tintern, the one she’d selected, but he didn’t press her for more details.

  Elspeth never told Tom about Cardiff and her real life. Nor did she ever admit that she disliked children and he never questioned her on the subject. Like most men he assumed the maternal instinct came naturally to every woman. He couldn’t have been more wrong. It was cruelty that came naturally to her it having been the norm in the shamble of a home she was raised in. Tom would never have understood that.

  Her thoughts went back to the tin of pilchards. She was livid that Joanna had eaten the lot, but how come there was no half empty tin? She went to the larder to double check.

  Nothing. Nor was there anything in the meat safe or any empty tin in the rubbish bin.

  Elspeth stood at the bottom of the stairs. The house was in darkness and, although she was keen to know the truth, she knew it was best to leave it until daylight. Just for once she would get up early.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was late afternoon on a Friday when Pierre took Sally to meet his Aunt Amelia, Lady Ambrose-DeVere, picking her up in a two-seater sports car the top pulled up firmly against the cold weather.

  Butterflies were performing aerobatics in Sally’s stomach. She’d rather stand in front of a class of screaming nine-year-olds, each throwing a tantrum. What if Aunt Amelia disliked her on sight?

  Noticing her nerves, Pierre did his best to reassure her. ‘You will love her. I know you will.’

  ‘But will she love me?’

  Pierre was adamant. ‘Of course she will. She loves me. I told her I loved you and so she will love you.’

  Sally was stunned. Pierre had just uttered the most thrilling three little words he could ever say. He loved her! She knew he was a man who made up his mind quickly. He oozed confidence, fully convinced that his opinion would be instantly echoed and agreed with by other people. A niggling voice at the back of her mind pointed out that he might very well be the kind of man who insisted on having his own way, that he was convinced he was always right and expected everyone else to fall in line.

  As fast as the thought formed, she dismissed it. He was perfect, her very own Prince Charming.

  Ambrose House was a rambling mid-nineteenth-century building with medieval turrets at one end, a Georgian portico slammed right in the centre, and a neo-Elizabethan black-and-white gable at the opposing end.

  Sally eyed the building with foreboding that was coupled with a good dose of criticism for whoever had designed it.

  Either the original place had been added to or successive generations had favoured one era. It occurred to her that the former was the most likely. The Victorians had a reputation for mixing styles with no regard for good taste.

  Instead of pulling up in front of the imposing main entrance, Pierre followed the road around the gabled end to the rear of the property, drawing up at the back door and a far plainer entrance than at the front.

  On alighting from the car, Sally noticed a painted sign, ordering tradesmen to ring the bell and wait.

  She bristled at the insult, that she was relegated to the tradesmen’s entrance as befitting a member of the general public. That was before Pierre opened the car door, grabbed her hand and proceeded to drag her in the opposite direction to the house.

  ‘This way.’

  He led her away from the rear facade to where a collection of single storey buildings stood in a separate courtyard opposite a series of very large greenhouses.

  The sound of barking told her that whatever the old stone buildings might once have been, they were now converted to kennels. It sounded as though a whole pack of dogs were housed there.

  Pierre, excitement lighting up his delicious brown eyes, pushed open the door of what might once have been a dairy where maids spent all day churning milk into butter or cheese – the milky smell long gone and replaced with the smell of dog.

  ‘Auntie’s favourite place,’ Pierre whispered.

  Ahead of them Sally spotted someone bent down. All she could see of them was a wide bottom and a worn seat of a pair of dark green corduroys. The corduroys were tucked into a man-sized pair of wellington boots.

  ‘Aunt Amelia!’

  At the sound of Pierre’s voice the figure turned round. Sally was confronted with a weather-beaten face and the brightest blue eyes she’d ever seen. She flinched as they swept boldly over her in a swift act of evaluation. Most people would take their time weighing up a visitor, possibly not making their mind up until a bedrock of familiarity had been established. Pierre’s Aunt Amelia had made up her mind in a moment.

  ‘Right,’ she said, her jaw-clenching stiffness vanishing in an instant. ‘So you’re the little poppet Pierre’s been rabbiting on about. Pleased to meet you.’

  Sally shook the proffered hand, the roughness of which surprised her.

  Suddenly a gust of wind blew a cloud of steam between them.

  Sally wrinkled her nose at the smell that came with it.

  Her ladyship beamed. ‘Intestines! That’s what you can smell. Tripe,’ stated Pierre’s aunt, with a sideways jerk of her head. ‘Though unbleached, so not fit for human consumption. And it comes from a horse! The knacker’s yard is quite happy for me to buy it. Different for a cow’s tripe, of course. Or a sheep’s, for that matter. Have you ever tasted mugget? That’s the name they give sheep’s tripe.’

  Sally admitted that she had not.

  Perhaps because they could smell that evening’s meal cooking, the dogs began to bark.

  Pierre, who had been watching Sally closely, suggested they take a look at his aunt’s menagerie.

  Without waiting for Sally to answer, Lady Amelia Ambrose-DeVere, who looked more like a farmer than a titled lady, strode off, her boots slopping slightly as though they were too big for her.

  Sally exchanged a smile with Pierre and he squeezed her hand reassuringly. All they could do was follow.

  They stopped in front of a little black-and-white dog yapping for all his worth and bouncing up and down on his hind legs.

  Amelia pointed to him. ‘I’ve named him Jack. You can see why, I trust?’

  Under Amelia’s hard stare, Sally felt as though she were a butterfly being pinned to a display board.

  ‘Because he’s like a Jack in the Box?’

  ‘Correct. He was also left in a box outside my gate. Unfazed by his experience. He’s that sort. One of the lucky ones to be so.’ Amelia’s manner was abrupt but her expression was soft.

  She went on to introduce Sally to other dogs she’d rescued, including a greyhound.

  ‘It’s supposed to be a bit like horse racing, though more favoured by the common man, rather than a sport of kings. Once he ceased winning for his owner and reached the end of his racing life he was destined for the scrap heap. The war hastened this. He was abandoned, though not before they’d cut off his ears. Racing greyhounds are tattooed with an identification number. The owner would have been found. Then I would have cut off his ears – or something more painful,’ she added.

  Judging by the look on her face, Sa
lly had no doubt she was being deadly serious.

  ‘I used to concentrate on greyhounds, but the war has changed all that. This is now a haven for the unwanted: cats complete with litters of kittens, placed in a sack, weighed down with bricks and thrown into a river. A dog found hanging from a tree, another tied to a railway line. Not all the animals that come to me have been mistreated. Some of the owners are just at their wits’ end. War or not, they do not wish for their pets to be put down. I’m their last hope.’

  Feeling genuinely moved, Sally patted and stroked those animals she could reach. ‘You’re so wonderful to be doing this.’

  Amelia shrugged. ‘As I’ve already said, I’ve always done it. Anyway, I prefer animals to humans.’ She glanced at her nephew, her look firm and forthright. ‘Some of them anyway.’

  From the kennels they returned to the house, Amelia stripping off her boots and man’s ex-navy duffle coat at the back door. From there she led them into the drawing room.

  The house turned out to be a hotchpotch of different styles, mirroring the outside. The furniture was heavy and old but in excellent condition. The smell of lavender polish hung in the air.

  A teatime spread was set out on a low table, sandwiches and a cake taking centre stage. A maid who looked almost as old as the house came in with a tray of tea and a vacuum flask of hot water.

  ‘That will be all, Iris.’

  Iris tottered out, her back bent, her feet carefully treading to support her bandy legs.

  ‘Knowing you were visiting I’ve done the best I can with what we have here,’ Amelia explained. ‘Can’t cater on a large scale nowadays. I used to have full-time servants, but no longer. Just Iris in the house and Fred the gardener. Everyone else is casual and part-time. All keener to get to fight and die or help the war effort in other ways rather than keep house. Oh well . . .’ Sighing she began to pour the tea. ‘Push the animals off the chairs. Sit down and help yourselves. I’m not here to wait on you.’

  Pierre encouraged two cats and a black-and-white English pointer off the chairs. Looking very disgruntled they all headed for a sofa at the further end of the room and settled there.