by Lizzie Lane
‘Can’t keep them outside in the kennels. They’re always in the house. Getting old. Like me,’ Amelia said with a chortle.
‘You’ll never get old, Aunt Amelia,’ said Pierre, raising his aunt’s hand to his lips and kissing it.
Amelia snatched her hand away. ‘Flatterer!’
Sally thought she saw a twinkle in Amelia’s eyes. It made her think she’d been quite a girl in her youth.
‘Are only cats and dogs brought to you?’ Sally asked, while accepting a piece of cake from Pierre.
‘Mostly. Pet mice and suchlike are merely set free. Rabbits, well, you can guess what happens to them so they’re not likely to end up here.
‘There is Poppy the pony,’ Pierre pointed out. ‘And Big Ears.’
Sally smiled. ‘Big Ears? That has to be a donkey.’
Pierre’s aunt smiled benevolently at her. ‘Quite right. He’s a donkey. The hurdy-gurdy man brought him. Said he was afraid his family might insist on eating him if he kept him. People were content enough to hear his music without having a donkey to pet. As for Poppy, she’s the pony Pierre used to ride when he was small. She’s old. We might well end up eating her, but not until she keels over of her own free will.’
Before leaving, Sally excused herself to go to the bathroom. Amelia directed her to the far end of the corridor. All the way along the corridor Sally felt she was walking on air.
Pierre had been right. Lady Amelia clearly approved of her and once she’d got over her ladyship’s bluntness, she loved his aunt. As for Pierre, well, she loved him most of all.
After Sally had left the room, Pierre questioned his aunt as to why she’d directed Sally to the bathroom at the end of the corridor when there was one much closer.
His aunt’s amiable expression became challenging. ‘You know why. I want a word.’
‘Ah!’ he said, looking disconcerted as he settled himself back in the chair. ‘Might as well ready myself for a verbal mauling.’
‘You’re not going to lead her up the garden path, are you?’
Pierre smiled in the way he knew usually got him his own way. ‘No. Only up the aisle. If things all work out.’
Unimpressed, Amelia drew in her chin. ‘You can’t mean that. Not until you know Adele’s whereabouts.’
Pierre sighed impatiently and met his aunt’s forthright gaze with one of his own.
‘Adele and I did not part on friendly terms. We differed in our views of what was happening in Germany. She thinks it’s all quite wonderful and that France should follow its lead. I, on the other hand, feel we’d be making a pact with the Devil!’
‘I am aware of your views, also of hers. All the same . . .’
‘Enough! I’ll get round to it in my own good time. When the time is right.’ Eyeing his aunt intently, hands clasped, he leaned towards her. ‘You’re not going to tell her, are you, Aunt Amelia? Please. Give me time. I will do what’s right. Just give me time.’
Amelia felt her heart softening. Pierre’s mother had died when he was nine years old. Rightly or wrongly she had plunged wholeheartedly into the vacant position. It occurred to her that every woman who had ever come into contact with her nephew swiftly fell under his spell – including her.
Conceding defeat, she shook her head. ‘I won’t tell her. It’s none of my business. It’s all down to you.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When Joanna opened her eyes on Saturday morning she sensed that something had changed. The room felt very much colder and her breath came in white clouds from her mouth.
Driven by the necessity to feed Harry, she arose from bed at the usual time and pulled on her old woollen skirt, pairing it with a patchwork jumper knitted by Mrs Allen next door from scraps of unpicked adult jumpers.
Frosty patterns covered each windowpane, so solid that even the heat of her finger failed to melt them.
After making her bed, she shot down the stairs to the kitchen before her stepmother put in an appearance.
The kitchen was in darkness so she switched on a light. The blackout curtains were still drawn and there was no point in pulling them back, not in December at this time in the morning, though she did peer out just to see how intense the frost might be. Although it was dark she could see a white crust covering that piece of garden where her father had planted vegetables before leaving for war. They were all wilted now. What remained of the unkempt straggly grass was white; the shed, the fence and the gate at the end of the garden that led out on to the lane all crusted with white too.
Her bedroom had been cold enough but outside would be even colder. She would need to wrap up as warm as she could. It occurred to her to get the fire going first so she could spread the coat in front of it. Even its early smouldering would warm the inside of her coat.
Once at the bottom of the stairs, she attuned her ears to the sound of her stepmother stirring. All was silent.
The larder held little except for the remains of the cheese and some bread.
Disappointed, she eyed the leftovers disparagingly. From there she delved into the pig bin and found the remains of two-day-old pastry and the gristle and bones from a pig’s head. The gristle and bones were grubby with old tea leaves. She swilled everything off beneath the tap. It wasn’t enough for a growing dog. He needed meat and biscuits, scraps of fat if she could get hold of any.
Getting hold of anything suitable was not easy. The food that pets had been fed was now in short supply. A piece of meat might be a bit gristly, the biscuits a bit damp, but the government was encouraging everyone not to be wasteful. Scraps of fat were rendered down and kept for frying. Marrowbones, once bought for the family dog to gnaw on, now formed the basis of many a nourishing soup.
Joanna swallowed her dismay, her eyes once again searching the shelves for something that she could feed Harry. There was no alternative but to give him the tin of pilchards she’d found the night before, which she’d hidden in her coat pocket.
At the back of her mind a small fear niggled like a stomach ache. She really didn’t want to be found out, but surely her stepmother wouldn’t want them?
The tin of pilchards had been there since before her father had left to fight in the war. Her father had liked them. Joanna remembered her stepmother turning up her nose as he’d eaten them. She’d seen them out in the garden, her father’s arms around her stepmother, him laughing and Elspeth wrinkling up her nose at the smell of pilchards on her father’s breath. She’d heard her exclaim, ‘Disgusting!’
‘Fish is good for you,’ he’d said, throwing back his head in laughter.
Elspeth had slapped his shoulder playfully. ‘Not if they smell like that.’
Elspeth didn’t seem to mind the smell when Tom smothered her mouth with his.
Joanna had felt a pang of jealousy at the sight. She and her father would have been better off without Elspeth. She’d never wanted another mother once her own was dead. Living alone with her father would have suited very well indeed.
She didn’t mind if his breath smelt after eating pilchards and she had no doubt that Harry would wolf them down quickly. It wasn’t meat, but it was the best she could do today. With the tin in her pocket and a newspaper tucked beneath her arm for Harry’s toilet training, Joanna unlocked the back door with great care. The front door wasn’t so stiff but it had a tendency to squeak, besides which it was situated at the bottom of the stairs leading up to her stepmother’s bedroom so was best avoided.
‘And where do you think you’re going?’
Joanna nearly jumped out of her skin, her breath catching in her throat. Her mouth turned dry and a little time passed before she mumbled something about going to the park.
Her stepmother’s makeup was smudged. She flicked a chipped finger nail at a piece of tobacco that had stuck to her bottom lip.
‘That newspaper.’ She pointed accusingly at the bundle Joanna carried beneath her arm. ‘For what reason are you taking a newspaper to the park?’
‘Something . . . to . . . read
. . .’ Joanna stammered.
As her stepmother’s face loomed over her the smell of cheap face powder flooded Joanna’s nostrils. ‘You’re lying!’
The force of her stepmother’s shout hit her forcefully.
‘Now. What else is going to the park with you?’ She moved like lightning, her long fingers taking hold of the collar of Joanna’s coat and tugging her forward. ‘Let’s see what’s in your pocket, shall we!’
Her sharp fingernails dug into Joanna’s coat pockets, scraping the girl’s hands. ‘Aha!’ She held the tin high in the air. ‘Now what might you be doing with a tin of pilchards in your pocket?’
Joanna attempted to explain. ‘I . . . I . . . wanted them for later on – in the park . . . with my friends . . .’
‘Friends? Now look here, my girl. It’s bad enough with this rationing to feed you without feeding the whole bloody street. It goes back in the larder. Now!’
Her stepmother shoved the tin into her face. Joanna took it with a trembling hand, her stepmother’s hand slapping the back of her head so hard that she stumbled and almost dropped it.
‘You’re a thief! Do you hear me, Joanna Ryan? Thieves end up in prison, and that’s where you’ll end up, my girl. Mark my words!’
Joanna’s mind screamed because she knew so well what would come next.
‘Please,’ she said, her eyes wide after she’d returned the tin to the larder. ‘Don’t put me in the coalhouse. I won’t do it again. Honest I won’t.’
Her stepmother’s eyes narrowed in that old familiar way. Joanna knew without a moment’s hesitation what was coming next. Like bands of steel, her stepmother’s hands closed around her shoulders. Her heart thudded against her ribs as she was frogmarched towards the door beneath the stairs.
‘Please! It’s Saturday and I have to see a friend! Please don’t put me in there . . .’
Her stepmother pushed her roughly into the coalhouse. She went sprawling over a pile of coal delivered just the week before. The door slammed behind her. The rough edges of the coal scratched at her palms and knees. She managed to turn round, ending up sitting on the top of the heap.
Tears flowed as she sobbed out her heartache. Squeezing her eyes shut she wished and wished that her father would come back soon. Then she would swallow her fear and finally tell him how things really were.
‘Count to ten, Jojo,’ he used to say to her. ‘Count to ten and everything will be on top of the world.’
Keeping her eyes tightly shut, her father’s smiling face imprinted on her mind, she began to count.
‘One, two, three . . .’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was Saturday morning and Sally felt as though she was walking on air.
Pierre DeVere was the most romantic man she had ever met. His Gallic charm had a lot to do with it, of course. How could any Englishman compare with the natural easy-going manners of her wonderful Frenchman?
She hummed a tune the two of them had danced to some weeks ago as she prepared a breakfast of sausage, egg and a piece of bread, fried in the fat the sausage produced in the pan.
Arnold Thomas, the headmaster of the boys’ school, had taken to keeping chickens in his back garden. The eggs were from him, one each for her and her father for breakfast and the rest for an omelette tomorrow night. She was in no doubt that Arnold was trying to make amends for his behaviour. A work colleague and a friend, that’s all he would ever be to her, and she’d gone out of her way to make that plain.
It did not escape her attention that her father cleared his plate in the time it took her to plate up her own breakfast.
‘Goodness, Dad,’ she said brightly. ‘You’ve got a good appetite this morning.’
It seemed too good to be true. Pierre had made her happy and it now seemed that that her father was recovering. This might indeed be a turning point in both their lives.
Sitting herself down on the opposite side of the table, she began to tell him about her visit to Ambrose House and the eccentric woman who was Pierre’s aunt.
‘Being a titled lady I was fully expecting her to come out dressed in a lavender ball gown and wearing lace gloves. Instead she wears men’s corduroy trousers, tweeds and thick sweaters. Not at all what I was expecting!’
‘Sounds like a very sensible woman to me,’ her father remarked. ‘Given what she’s doing.’
‘You’re right, Dad. Those poor animals.’
She told him about the greyhounds and the cats with their kittens. ‘If Mrs Evans had known her ladyship was willing to take them in, I could have taken her cat and kittens there. As it is . . .’
Her features became downcast as she waited for her father to make some comment about that was the way of the world and that was that. He surprised her when he responded differently.
‘It’s a good job there are folk about with a bit of common sense. If less people ran around like headless chickens, we’d get through this war a lot happier than we are at present. A dog is a man’s best friend. I saw that in the last war. Without them a lot more men would’ve been killed.’
Sally couldn’t believe her ears and hope soared. Since her mother’s death his sentences had been short and decidedly pessimistic. It did seem indeed that a milestone had been reached.
‘Right,’ said her father, hastily rising from his chair and grabbing his coat. ‘I’m off to the allotment. I’ll take what’s left in that teapot, if that’s all right with you.
‘Of course it is.’ The fact that he was going to the allotment gladdened her heart. Was he actually going to do something there? ‘Do you have anything planned?’
He nodded as he pulled on his old coat and hat. ‘I’ve cleared the ground. I’m thinking I might plant carrots, onions, spring greens and runner beans. They should grow well as long as the frost keeps off. Then we’ll see where we go from there.’
Sally beamed at him, her heart skipping at the news. ‘That’s wonderful. We could do with some fresh vegetables. Just you make sure to take something for your indigestion.’
Her father’s eyebrows rose quizzically. ‘Indigestion? What makes you think I’ll be suffering a bout of that?’
Sally turned her attention to the dishes she’d left piled on the draining board in an effort to hide her smile.
‘You ate that sausage very quickly. You deserve to get indigestion.’
She heard him grumble something about the young having no respect for the disposition of their elders. She was bemused. He never usually did that unless he was hiding something, though she couldn’t think what it might be.
When Seb arrived at the allotment, a few other figures were tending their own narrow patches, hoeing and digging and pulling out weeds. One or two turned their heads at his approach, or they might have heard the sound of yapping coming from his shed. Not that anyone seemed at all concerned.
Turning his back on the other allotment holders, he looked through the window just in case the little girl was inside tending her pet. There was no one, so he lifted the metal hook and opened the door.
Harry was panting and wagging fit to burst. On seeing Seb his yapping subsided though the panting and wagging continued. And no wonder, thought Seb on checking his water dish. It was empty. So was his food bowl.
Anger bristled in the depths of his soul. So did disappointment and surprise that he’d misjudged the little girl, thinking her conscientious and caring. It seemed she hadn’t called in and it grieved him to think the little girl had neglected her puppy. Perhaps there was a good reason, but his anger was slow to subside. He smiled down at the bright eyes looking up at him. ‘Never you mind, Harry. You just see what I’ve got for you.’
First he poured water into Harry’s dish. Once the little dog had drank his fill he brought the sausage from out of his pocket plus a few biscuits from the tin at home. Harry gobbled up the lot.
After refilling the water dish Seb looked at Harry’s bed and at his toilet area.
He’d had no reason to doubt that the little girl called in to
see the puppy twice a day. Seb’s expression darkened. She hadn’t bothered to come in this weekend. The little brat! To leave an animal to suffer left with no water and no food was unforgiveable.
‘She’ll get a piece of my mind when I see her,’ he said to the dog.
Harry licked his chops and looked up at him before seeking out an old tennis ball.
Seb laughed. ‘I’m supposed to be planting vegetables not playing with you.’
The puppy persisted.
‘Oh well.’ Seb resigned himself to his fate. ‘I’ll play with you for half an hour and then I’ve got to get on.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was Saturday evening and very late before Joanna was let out of the coalhouse under the stairs. Elspeth told her to get her own dinner.
‘Here. Sixpence to go and get fish and chips at Hamblin’s.’
Joanna, her face streaked with coal dust and the tracks of her tears, heard her stomach rumble as she took the money. It crossed her mind that Harry might like fish. And chips. Perhaps when she’d bought some she could take them directly to him.
‘And you’re to come straight back here afterwards. I want your supper eaten and you in bed by eight. Is that clear?’
Joanna’s hope was dashed. All she could do was nod, feeling empty and scared inside.
Elspeth rested her knuckles on her hips, her face a disdainful mask. ‘You might say “thank you”. Money don’t grow on trees, you know.’
‘Thank you.’ Joanna’s voice was low. She was frightened and breathing coal dust all day had made her throat dry.
On the surface Elspeth’s offer sounded generous enough, but if anyone could have read her mind, they would have seen how selfish it really was. There was purpose in everything Elspeth did, and this action was no exception. If Joanna ever did complain to her father, her stepmother could tell him that she’d given his daughter money for fish and chips. Joanna could not deny it.
Joanna was glad to go the fish and chip shop but dared not take time to visit Harry. It would have to wait for the morning.