by Lizzie Lane
‘Help!’ Her voice was still no more than a squeak and she hammered on the door until her knuckles were sore.
‘Help.’
Sensing her efforts were useless, she slumped onto the coal, hot tears running down her dirty face.
Despair was replaced by resignation. She was only a child. There was nothing else she could do.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
A brawny arm shot out across Seb and Sally’s path as they closed on the site.
‘This is a restricted area. Demolition in progress.’
Sally caught her breath. Dawn was breaking. A quick survey of the sight confirmed the very worst. She exchanged a knowing look with her father. ‘It’s Joanna’s house!’
One of the rescuers heard her. ‘Did you know the people in there,’ asked the man.
‘Yes. We did. I was her teacher,’ Sally explained.
The man’s attitude softened a fraction. ‘We found a dead woman and a man, but no child. We were told by the neighbours she’s been evacuated.’
Sally shook her head. ‘No. She ran away. We were at the police station earlier. We know she ran away and was taken home by her stepmother yesterday.’
The man’s tired eyes weighed up their resilience as he prepared to say what had to be said.
‘The whole house came down. The man and woman were in bed. It stands to reason that the little girl was in her bed too. I’m sorry . . .’
Seb felt a tug on his arm. He looked down to see the dog straining on his four strong legs, nose quivering and eyes fixed on a point in the middle of the site where a single wall still stood.
Harry began to whine.
The man was about to walk away when Seb grabbed his arm. ‘The little girl wasn’t in bed. She’d put her stepmother to a lot of trouble and she was the sort to make her suffer for her disobedience.’
The man frowned.
‘I’m telling you now. The little girl never went to bed. She’s probably in there somewhere.’
‘What’s that machine doing?’ Sally asked, her voice quivering.
‘We’re aiming to pull down that set of stairs and the wall before it falls down.
‘You can’t do that,’ Sally shouted and lunged forward.
The man grabbed her. ‘Oh no you don’t!’
‘Listen, you big oaf,’ scolded Sally. ‘The stepmother was in the habit of locking the little girl in the coalhouse under the stairs as punishment. The stairs are still standing. If you disturb them you’ll likely kill a child!’
The man looked perplexed. He had a family of his own and found it hard to believe that anyone could do that. A spanking now and again was one thing, and only when thoroughly deserved. But locking a kid in the darkness under the stairs? That took some believing.
‘Wait here. I’ll see what the bloke in charge has to say.’
Harry was straining against his lead. His ears were raised as high as floppy ears could be. His eyes were fixed on what remained of the house and his wet nose quivered, a sure sign that he was dissecting all the different smells and had found one that interested him the most.
The bulldozer, its shovel full of rubble, was heading back to where the lorry waited.
Seb surmised that one more trip, one more attempt to dig around the stairs and the wobbly wall and staircase would all come tumbling down.
Harry barked, looked up at Seb and wagged his tail.
Seb understood. If nobody else was going to act in time, then it was up to him. He unclipped the lead from Harry’s collar.
‘Find Joanna!’
There were raised protests as Harry ran across the bombsite, avoiding the danger spots, his instinct sensing they were there.
Brawny arms reached out to grab him, but with his four legs he was far too quick for them. With a resounding crash, he leapt at the top half of the coalhouse door, yapping and scratching excitedly.
‘What’s that bloody dog doing there?’
The engineer was miffed. He liked being in charge of this and resented interruption.
The policeman who had helped Mrs Allen, plus a few other men, ignored him and dashed for where the dog was going crazy, yapping and springing on his hind legs so his nose was level with a thin gap showed at the top of the door.
While everyone was in uproar, Seb sprinted across the bombsite although it strained his joints and made him breathless. It had been many a long year since he’d moved so fast.
Once there he grabbed Harry’s collar. ‘Quiet now, boy. You’ve done your job. She’s probably heard you, but we can’t hear her. Joanna!’ he shouted. ‘Joanna! Are you in there?’
The rumble of the bulldozer’s engine drifted across to the bombsite, drowning out any response.
‘Shut that bloody thing off a minute,’ shouted the policeman.
The engineer looked disinclined to comply, but was overruled. Everyone wanted to see if there really was somebody alive amid all this devastation.
The whole site fell to silence.
The men gathered around the upper half of the door placed their ears as close to the door as they could.
A man with brawny arms banged on it with his fist. Harry barked.
Suddenly they heard a sound, a small barely audible voice. ‘Harry! Harry!’
Men with shovels were called for. Seb grabbed one and began to dig. The bulldozer was left standing still as an army of men carefully dug around the door until finally they could bust the hinges and break the panels of wood apart with their bare hands.
At first sight it seemed to be just a bundle of dirty rags lying on black coal in a black hole. Seb sucked in his breath as he took in the poor child’s surroundings. How could anyone treat a child so badly?
‘Joanna! Joanna! Can you hear me?’
The policeman gently pushed him back. ‘Leave her to me, sir.’
Empowered with youthful strength, the policeman reached in to get her out, but Harry got there first.
Straining against Seb’s hold on his collar, he dived in, his whole body wagging with excitement, squealing and yapping until he was standing over Joanna. Once he was there, legs squarely fixed on either side of her body he began to lick her face.
‘Harry,’ she whispered as she reached for him. ‘Harry.’
Despite all that she’d gone through she smiled up at him, her face striped thanks to Harry’s tongue leaving white tracks over her black face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Sally held Joanna’s hand, stroking it and telling her everything was going to be all right.
‘Only cuts and bruises,’ the doctor told her, ‘though we are inclined to keep her in hospital for a night or two just to check there are no head injuries.’
‘But she’ll be all right?’
‘She’ll be fine.’
A question loitered in his eyes. ‘You’re not her mother are you?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘I didn’t think you were. You look too young.’ Sally could tell he was genuinely interested, and not just in Joanna.
‘I teach Joanna in junior school. She’s an orphan. Her mother died some years back, her father just a few months ago.’ Her jaw tightened. ‘Her stepmother died last night – not that she gave a jot what happened to the girl.’
‘Ah!’ The doctor scribbled something in his notes. ‘I’ll contact someone with regard to her future. Leave it with me.’
Once she’d reassured Joanna that she would be back in to see her and that Harry was being taken care of, she made her way to the hospital exit.
Outside the ward she spotted the doctor talking to a rotund woman wearing dark green tweeds and a plain mustard hat. The doctor glanced at her then said something to the woman. Both looked in her direction so she knew immediately that this was something to do with Joanna. The doctor glanced down at his notes to check the name she had given before calling out to her.
‘Miss Hadley.’
The round woman raised her gloved hand at the doctor, as though saying to him that she
would handle whatever had to be done.
The doctor disappeared. The woman in the dark green costume strode purposefully towards her. The costume was well cut and made of bulky material.
‘Miss Hadley.’ The hand that shook Sally’s hand was warm and meaty, the grip strong. ‘I’m Miss Thorpe, children’s welfare officer.’
With a wave of her hand, Miss Thorpe directed Sally into a small side room. The room was dull as well as small, brown paint halfway up the walls, then cream to the ceiling. The ceiling was high, far too high for the size of the room.
Miss Thorpe indicated a chair on one side of a desk. She took the other, her fleshy hands meeting and resting in front of her. ‘I hear from Dr Jason that the Ryan girl is an orphan.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Do you know if the child has any other relatives – aunts, uncles, grandparents?’
Miss Thorpe held her head high, the ends of her mouth downturned, her tiny eyes fixing on her from either side of a pair of flaring nostrils. Although she made her feel uneasy, Sally answered the questions as best she could.
She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. As far as I am aware, she has no one.’
‘I see.’ The pugnacious-looking Miss Thorpe nodded curtly.
It was impossible to read the woman’s thoughts, but Sally couldn’t help being apprehensive. She was in two minds to offer to take Joanna home with her, but the possibility of Pierre returning held her back. Fostering a child was not something she’d ever considered before and she couldn’t understand why she was flirting with the idea now.
Pierre had been her future and even though he was married she still entertained a fond hope that all would turn out well in the end. If so, they would have their own children. Like most men he was unlikely to welcome looking after someone else’s child.
However, if her father could gain custody . . .
Never mind, she thought to herself. If all else failed, Joanna would be found a loving and caring foster home, perhaps one with children of her own age.
It wouldn’t hurt to confirm that. ‘I take it she’ll be fostered.’
Miss Thorpe gave a short sharp laugh as though she’d just suggested they find the child a spare room at Buckingham Palace.
‘There are too many orphans and evacuees for that matter, and not enough foster families. Joanna will be placed in an orphanage in Brislington.’
‘Brislington! That’s miles from here.’
Sally had been prepared for Joanna to be fostered fairly close at hand so she could still see Harry, and also so Sally and her father could visit. It would be enough of wrench for Joanna to be parted from Harry, but at least being on hand to visit would have softened the blow.
Sally eyed the fleshy face, the tiny eyes and the mean mouth. Was it her imagination or was Miss Thorpe enjoying her dismay?
‘Is there nowhere closer?’
‘I’m afraid not. Stanleybridge House is a very long-established orphanage. They are skilled in dealing with all kinds of children from broken backgrounds, though most are orphans.’
Sally fiddled with her gloves, her mind racing as she weighed up the implications of what Miss Thorpe had said. There was no foster parent and no chance of getting one by the sound of it.
‘Can she not continue to be evacuated as her stepmother planned?’
Miss Thorpe shook her head. ‘No. Circumstances have changed. Parents now have to pay a certain amount to the homes offered to evacuees. The Ryan child has no parent, therefore no money is forthcoming.’
Sally played with the fingers of her gloves, all the time trying to decide if what she was thinking would be acceptable. Never mind that Pierre might object to her actions, she had no option but to dive straight in. She might regret it later on, but it had to be done.
‘What if my father and I took her in?’
Miss Thorpe, a local government officer who had no children of her own and didn’t particularly like them, pulled in her chin and glared. ‘Your father and you?’
I don’t like you, thought Sally. She nodded anyway and adopted a neutral expression. Best first to see where this interview was going rather than responding to instinct. ‘That’s right. I am her teacher and my father treats her as though she’s his daughter – or granddaughter. And then there’s Harry to consider.’
Even to her own ears, Sally thought she sounded excited. She had failed to endow her voice with the same neutrality as her face.
‘Harry? Is that her brother?’
Feeling slightly foolish, Sally shook her head. ‘No. He’s her dog.’
Miss Thorpe looked unimpressed. A friend managed the orphanage she recommended. The governing body paid five pounds for every child referred there, which her friend shared with her. Two pounds ten shillings was a very useful sum indeed.
‘How old is your father?’
‘Sixty-five, but very spry and I look after him very well, just as he looks after me.’ Even to her own ears she sounded as though she were trying to impress.
Miss Thorpe’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re a very good-looking girl. I take it you have a sweetheart?’
Sally felt herself blushing. ‘I really don’t think that’s any of your business!’
‘What if we did pass the child into your care? If you get married, who will look after her then? Your father?’
‘That is so unfair . . .’
‘Your father is in his sixties. He will be way past three score years and ten, as it says in the Bible, when the child starts work. If you marry, the child will be left with him. If he dies she has no one unless you take her in. New husbands are not usually keen to take on other men’s brats!’
Sally bristled. ‘I dislike your tone, Miss Thorpe. In fact, I can’t help but get the impression that you would prefer to place Joanna in an orphanage regardless of who stepped forward to take her.’
‘Not at all.’ Miss Thorpe was unbending, the sort of woman who holds on to her own opinion regardless of any arguments to the contrary. ‘Children thrive in the company of other children. She will also receive a decent education. I’m sure you, as a teacher, would approve of that?’
‘That may be, but my feeling is that Joanna would blossom in a family environment – a happy environment with those around her who love her – including her dog.’
‘There are no dogs at Stanleybridge. They are not allowed. However it is my firm belief that Stanleybridge would suit the child very well.’
‘Joanna. Her name’s Joanna.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You keep referring to her as “the child”. Not once have you used her proper name.’
Miss Thorpe shrugged nonchalantly. Her manner was dismissive. ‘I have a job to do, Miss Hadley. Many children are referred to my department. I have to determine what is best for each one without becoming personally involved.’
Chair legs scraped the dull linoleum floor as Miss Thorpe got to her feet, signalling that the interview was over.
Seething, Sally did the same. Despite her resolve to be neutral and professional, she couldn’t help herself. ‘Perhaps you should consider giving them numbers,’ she snapped disparagingly.
Miss Thorpe gave a weak smile. ‘I do.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Stanleybridge Orphanage was housed in a building not dissimilar to one of the mills its benefactor had owned. Built of red brick, its windows were small, its doors stout and the interior was starkly grim.
Being a man focused on practicality rather than beauty, Lionel Stanleybridge insisted that only browns, creams and greens were used to decorate its dour interior, the same colours used in the many woollen mills that he owned in North Somerset and West Wiltshire.
The mills produced the finest woollen cloth thanks to their proximity to the sheep grazing the Mendip and Quantock hills and the close proximity of fresh running water.
Joanna was taken to the orphanage on a bus. Miss Thorpe had tried to obtain the use of a council-owned motorcar for the journey just as s
he had before the war. She’d been told that her use of it did not have a high priority. She’d bristled at that and blamed the child she accompanied rather than the war for the council’s decision. She’d never been refused use before.
On the bus Miss Thorpe insisted Joanna sit by the window then squeezed in beside her, her bulk filling two-thirds of the seat. Escape was impossible.
Joanna sought solace in the passing scenery, which went some way to helping her disregard the woman she was with and where she was going, though not entirely. She was still numb from the bombing and the aftershock of learning that Elspeth was dead.
No conversation passed between them until the journey was over.
‘Your new home.’
There was a look of self-satisfaction on the face of the children’s welfare officer as she eased herself sideways from the seat, snatching at Joanna’s wrist just in case she decided to make a run for it.
Joanna was dragged from the bus, her meagre belongings, items of underwear and a new jumper that Sally had brought into the hospital taking up little room in a brown paper carrier bag.
Round-eyed, Joanna stared upwards at the towering height of the orphanage gates. Dark green in colour they were made of iron plate, each plate bound to its neighbour by iron rivets. To Joanna’s eyes the rivet ends looked like large boils, as though if she pressed one it would pop.
When Miss Thorpe pulled on a long iron handle a bell clanged gloomily from the other side of the gates.
A door-size portion of the gate opened, and a woman with a pale face and severe bun appeared.
On recognising Miss Thorpe she invited her in unsmilingly. Miss Thorpe duly obliged, tugging Joanna in behind her, her grip undiminished. The two women exchanged few words and those only in regard to required paperwork. Turning swiftly on her heels, the woman led them up the path to the orphanage.
Joanna stared up at the prison-like facade of the building. She was unable to shake off the feeling that if she entered she might never ever leave. For ever! She might be in here for ever!