We greeted the few other St Martin’s girls like us out on an exploratory jaunt. At the bottom of the hill, set slightly back on the right and just short of the mock-Tudor building, there emerged a truly imposing modern edifice with single and double ionic columns stretching skywards between two storeys of office windows above the shops below. By now the sun was getting low, a slight evening chill descending. We hurried left past the newly built Crescent Cinema in Church Street bedecked with posters and completed the circle at the parish church, then on through the glooming back to Givens Grove.
Mrs Briggs was waiting for us in her front lounge.
‘’Zere you are, you naughty girls!’ she scolded. ‘Meesis ’Arree found your note when she return from zee kitchen garden but now ’as ’ad to go ’ome so I ’ave ’ad to wait for you, I ’ave better use for my time!’
We muttered our apologies.
Mrs Briggs sniffed and added, as she swept from the room, ‘Your supperrr is in zee kitchen.’
We hastened off, to be met by a plate of stale bread, no butter and a pot of tepid tea. Retrieving our food bags from our room, we shared out some, saving the remainder for another time. Tired and still hungry, we settled ourselves for an early night. I shot the bolt on the inside of the door and climbed onto the Ottoman divan; it was narrow, hard and lumpy with no sheet, only a blanket provided that scratched my neck, barely augmented by my own thin blanket. Janet and Becky shared the four-foot-wide ‘double’ bed.
I lay awake for a while, the events of the day churning in my head. I felt let down by the sheer discomfort of my bed and the unfriendly welcome. I was also angry with myself. My fantasy of a kindly, motherly hostess doling out plentiful dollops of steaming food was sadly awry. Trust no one and you won’t be disappointed, I reminded myself, swallowing an unbidden lump of self-pity.
The early start eventually caught up with me and I was sound asleep when, just around dawn, we were woken by a loud knocking on the door to the room. We started up and I climbed off the Ottoman, and nervously unbolted and opened the door. It was Mrs Briggs, who exclaimed, ‘Oh, you naughty girrls, what iz ze lock doing on ze door? Do you know zere was a storm in ze night?’
We were so exhausted we had all slept through it.
She carried on, ‘One of you used ze barzroom for ’arf an ’our last night, my ’usband wanted to use ze barzroom but it was not available!’
I remained silent. That was me!
Drawing in a deep breath laden with disapproval, Mrs Briggs added, ‘From zis morning, girls, you will use my room.’
Feeling chastised and deflated, I staggered back to bed for a couple more hours’ sleep. Later, Mrs Briggs showed us her huge exotically decorated bedroom, hung with heavily-braided bright yellow damask, with a curtained-off area in the corner containing a bath where were required to wash. We hurriedly washed and dressed and found our way to a deserted kitchen. The table seemed to be laid out for breakfast but on drawing closer I saw there were only stale crusts, a jar of indeterminate jam and a teapot.
‘Ugh, what kind of breakfast is this?’ I exclaimed, smearing the hardened crust with a layer of reddish brown goo from the pot of homemade jam.
Becky held her crust up to the light and sniffed it. ‘I think it’s meant to be strawberry jam,’ she ventured.
I tentatively licked the top of my crust and recoiled at the acrid taste. ‘Burnt strawberry jam you mean.’
Janet said, ‘My mother always gives me porridge and a boiled egg and toast for breakfast, there must be something else to come.’
But there wasn’t.
‘Will you come with Janet and me to church?’ I asked Becky hesitantly, not wishing to offend her, but not wanting her to feel left out. I vaguely recollected that Becky was Jewish but I had seen her in school assemblies and I knew there were girls whose parents were of a liberal Jewish persuasion.
‘Yes, I will,’ decided Becky. ‘My parents told me to do the same as everyone else. They said I have to eat everything I’m given,’ she added confidingly, ‘even if it’s pork.’
We made our way to Leatherhead Parish Church for Matins, arriving early as we didn’t know how full the church would be. It was as well we did. Already it was almost full and we squeezed in near the back.
It was Sunday 3rd September 1939.
We sat in the pew awaiting the introduction to the first hymn. The vicar stood up and turned on the wireless that was placed in pride of place on a low table at the head of the chancel steps. It crackled into life and we sat electrified as Neville Chamberlain, the prime minister, told us of his efforts to avoid war and how an ultimatum had been given to Germany to withdraw from Poland and how the deadline of eleven o’clock had passed. He ended with the words,
‘This country is now at war with Germany.’
The charged silence was broken by a low moan from a woman in the row in front and about halfway up the church another exclaimed softly, ‘God help us all!’ Another sobbed, ‘Not again.’ I sat in the pew feeling a little nauseous, waiting for the introduction to the first hymn and wondering if German soldiers were about to rain down from the skies and surround the church.
A dreadful rising and falling wailing sound erupted. Janet beside me jumped and I leaned into Becky and murmured, ‘There’s something wrong with the organ.’
Becky heard me faintly over the banshee and, glancing at me and deciding I was not being facetious, shook her head. ‘I think it’s an air raid siren,’ she mouthed back.
I looked back at her in horror, my heart suddenly thudding. ‘Air raid! Already?’
The vicar and other dignitaries sat stock still while many of the congregation twisted around in their seats, exclaiming anxiously, and some started to rise. A man in air raid warden’s uniform rushed in through the side entrance, gesturing to the congregation to stay put as the siren tailed off.
Moving to the chancel steps, the vicar announced the first hymn, O God Our Help In Ages Past. Beloved of Armistice Day services, it now seemed to mock the future. Trust God, it seemed to say. But where will God be when the Germans come knocking at the door of our shores? I felt ashamed at my lack of faith while others around were belting out the hymn, and slightly sick, the acrid taste of overcooked homemade strawberry jam burning at the back of my throat. During the service several people pushed their way outside, seemingly overcome by the emotion of the occasion and I was glad to escape at the end into the warm sunlight and reassure myself that no invasion had begun.
Returning to the house the smell of roasting meat and boiling vegetables cheered me a little. The meagre breakfast and the walk to church and back had left me ravenous. After toileting and hand-washing we thought it best to congregate in the kitchen where an aproned, harassed lady we had not met before clattered and banged the pots and pans on the huge cooking range. A cook, a housekeeper and a chauffeur, I thought. What next, a maid?
The square table at which we breakfasted earlier supported steaming bowls and sauce- and gravy-boats and was not laid out for us. I was about to suggest decamping straight to the dining room when the back door to the kitchen opened and Mrs Harris stepped in. ‘Oh, good, you’re ready for a prompt lunch,’ she said, indicating a side table against the far wall boasting three decrepit wooden chairs and some cutlery. She crossed the kitchen to the pantry and emerged a moment later with a large plate, on which sat a few slices of cold ham, a jar of pickled onions and three small bread rolls, which she deposited on the table. I sat down, silenced by incredulity, while Becky busied herself with getting a jug of water and three glasses, and we sat and ate our repast, Janet observing to Becky, ‘Good job your parents said to eat pork,’ and escaped to our room as quickly as we could.
I felt choked with disappointment. ‘Well, Mrs Briggs certainly knows how to keep us in our place. Perhaps I’ll ask my parents to bring me some extra food at the weekend.’
That was the signal for us to dive for writing pens and paper. I wrote to my parents describing the past twenty-four hours in som
e detail and ended, so if you can bring a little extra food when you come to see me you will have one extremely grateful daughter.
Stale crusts augmented by some of my corned beef for supper did little to assuage my hunger and that night I slept fitfully. At some point I dreamt I was lost in a hayfield, lying down on a bed of straw, only to come to with my scratchy blanket wrapped around my neck. Janet and Becky’s night was again punctuated with ‘Oi’s and ‘Ouch’es, as they repeatedly encountered each other unexpectedly in the ‘double’ bed.
The new morning saw us entering the school grounds, which proved to be very extensive, laid out to the rear of the imposing frontage we had seen the previous Saturday evening. The Victorian building at the rear ran along three sides of a grassy quadrangle. A more modern two-storeyed section made up the left side of the quadrangle and contained classrooms and science laboratories on the ground floor with a large room on the top floor. Daily assembly was to be held by St Martin’s School in this upper room. Girls chattered excitedly around me comparing their billets, and I heard Gwen exclaiming to Nora nearby, ‘The most extraordinary thing! I’m staying on a farm!’
Following our first assembly of the new term, we handed in our address postcards to be posted by the school to our parents. I made a mental note to later post the letter I had written. We were dispersed around church halls and sports halls in the town for the morning lessons. My morning of Mathematics, Biology and Keep Fit spent in the Methodists’ church hall seemed to last for ever.
Just after midday I sat with Becky and Janet eating my four-penny lunch at the Scout Hut feeling miserable and disorientated.
‘It’s English next, I think,’ ventured Janet, scrabbling in her bag to find the new timetable.
Becky perused her copy. ‘Yes, but that’s not at the Methodists’ hall. It says here that English is to be held in the Parish Hall, even though we were told that most afternoon lessons’ll be held in the science block at St Birstan’s.’
We studied the street map with which each of us had been issued.
‘We must have passed it as we walked in this morning,’ I said, ‘but look at the time, we’ll be late if we don’t hurry,’ and we downed the rest of our food quickly, and hastened away.
By late afternoon I was ravenously hungry again.
‘I could eat a horse,’ declared Becky as we trudged wearily back to our out-of-town billet.
‘If you’re not careful, we will!’ snorted Janet and we all chuckled at the allusion to Mrs Briggs’ French origins. The memory of the strong, sickly smell of horsemeat cooking in the poverty-stricken back streets of south London washed over me and I shuddered and breathed in deeply the fresh sweet-scented country air around me.
We were again fed only with the Briggs’ leftovers and the stale crusts from their meals the day before, supplemented with some of the remains of the rations handed to us on our first day. After doing this for a couple more days the rations ran out.
‘Now, girrrls’ said Mrs Briggs, late on our first Friday afternoon, ‘Eef you ’ave no ’omework ziz evening you can make yourselves useful around ’ere,’ and produced a set of weeding tools which she presented to us. Clearly, when our heads were not in our schoolbooks we were expected to weed her garden, which mainly involved removing clover from the lawn. So instead of the honoured guest I had expected to be, I and my companions were relegated to the bottom of the skivvy pile. The only relief from the dreadful misery in which I felt plunged was the letter from my parents which arrived on the Saturday morning. They were coming to see me the very next day. I was relieved to see that that the nude painting had meanwhile been removed from our room.
‘Mummy, Daddy,’ I cried as I ran along the platform to greet them on Sunday morning. After a flurry of hugs and kisses, I linked my arms in theirs and we strolled through the town, past the parish church and on to my strange new home. My mother was only twenty years older than me and we were often taken for sisters. She wore a pretty floral print summer dress and a tailored beige jacket with a narrow brimmed beige hat tilted at a jaunty angle. My father, an inch shorter than my mother when in stockinged feet, walked smartly upright in his grey flannels and herringboned sports jacket, his head topped by a trilby. He carried a small bag of non-perishable food.
Daddy’s quizzically raised eyebrow was his only reaction to our surroundings on arriving at the house but my mother was more forthright.
‘And what are your arrangements for my daughter to do her washing?’ she demanded of Mrs Briggs, who dramatically threw her arms up in the air and declared ‘She iz not doing zat ’ere!’
Feeling unwelcome, my parents elected to take me to a cafe in the town which was fortunately open for Sunday lunch; it was crowded with other evacuees and their families and expensive. With a bag of unplanned washing to transport, my parents decided to return home earlier than originally intended. The sight of the receding train chuffing my parents and my washing back to our snug little home in the heart of London blurred as, fighting the threatened tears, I waved harder, murmuring, ‘See you again soon,’ but feeling as bereft as if ‘soon’ was next year.
The following Sunday morning, depositing a bag of freshly laundered clothes and linen in my room, my mother whirled away, a human tornado, to find Mrs Briggs and to ‘Give her a piece of my mind, not letting my daughter do her own washing here and making your poor father lug all your dirty washing home and your clean washing down here, and him having to go straight back to tonight’s work after all our journeying which we hadn’t planned on this weekend, and we’re even having to bring you food for your weekends and your suppers while she gets money from the government for having you, so where’s that money going I’d like to know…’
My mother’s voice faded into the distance and my father rolled his eyes and sat down on my divan to await the outcome. Becky and Janet had both gone out with their respective parents for the afternoon and Daddy and I enjoyed a few moments to ourselves, catching up on our week’s news while simultaneously straining to hear the verbal battle engaged in the garden. Eventually my mother returned thin-lipped, and with a defiant toss of her head swept us off out of the house and back to the town to Gregory’s tea rooms for a light lunch before seeking a train that would get my father to work in time.
The following Friday at the end of the school day Becky called to me in the corridor, ‘Pat, Pat, wait.’ I turned.
‘Miss Greaves wants to see us,’ Becky continued breathlessly, ‘the three of us, I mean, you, me and Janet.’ Anxious grooves marred Becky’s high brow as she reached out to detain me.
‘Why? Are we in trouble with Mrs Briggs?’ I asked apprehensively.
‘I don’t know, only it must be something to do with her, mustn’t it, with just the three of us called in?’ replied Becky.
Janet was already waiting for us by the school gates, and moments later we were standing before Miss Greaves, like the Three Little Maids from School, except I was tall and well built, and Becky, while slender, was tall too and her head always seemed tilted up with a slight air of defiance or perhaps just self-assurance, and, although shorter than us, Janet’s generous endowment made her seem no more like a Little Maid either. Standing quietly we awaited our fate.
When Miss Greaves began, ‘I understand you’re billeted with Mrs Briggs,’ I expected her to berate me for unacceptable parental behaviour or produce a list of our wrongdoings, but she went on, ‘and I have received complaints about her hospitality from all your parents including the fact that she does not provide you with an adequate breakfast nor food of an evening, nor,’ looking in my direction, ‘sheets for your bed. Well, girls, I’ve made arrangements to move you this very afternoon to other accommodation that might be a little more suitable. I’ve already sent letters informing your parents. Go back only to pack your things and I’ve arranged for a car to collect you from there and take you to your new homes.’
We were speechless. Managing a murmured ‘Thank you, Miss Greaves,’ we hastened to do her biddi
ng.
Janet was dropped off at her new home first in a road near the station. As we waved Janet goodbye I turned to Becky and said, ‘I’m so sorry we won’t be able to put up together now as I have so enjoyed your company.’
Leaving the car a few minutes later Becky turned, hugging me and promising, ‘We’ll still remain friends and let’s have our lunches together like before.’
The car, with me sitting in the back in solitary splendour like a princess in her Cinderella carriage, came to a white, double-fronted house with a front garden path bordered by a low, brilliant display of asters. The front door opened and an attractive slim black-haired lady in her mid-thirties, much my mother’s age, stepped out. Climbing out of the car I found myself enveloped in a warm, scented embrace.
‘Welcome, my dear, to Pachesham Park. I’m Mrs Fox,’ she declared graciously. ‘It’s delightful to meet you. Do come and greet your fellow guests,’ and her smile was as welcoming as her words. Mounting the steps, I could only gape in awe at a mansion that quite dwarfed Mrs Briggs’ house by comparison.
‘I expect you know Fiona and Daisy,’ my hostess continued, leading me into the drawing room, and I nodded at the fair-skinned auburn-haired Fiona sitting on a low sofa and to our dark-haired athletically built Form captain Daisy, seated in an elegant Queen Anne chair.
‘And this is Helga,’ Mrs Fox continued, beckoning over a younger girl with long dark hair in two plaits and huge nervous dark brown eyes, standing near the window. I smiled at her.
Mrs Fox turned to Daisy. ‘Perhaps Daisy can show you to your room as you will be sharing with her. When you’ve settled yourself in, come down for supper.’
Later, lying on a camp bed in a first floor room which Mrs Fox had previously been using as an architect’s office, my stomach uncomfortably full from a huge serving of stew and dumplings followed by apple pie and custard, I was starting to drift off to sleep when Daisy leaned over the side of her camp bed and whispered,
‘Don’t you think it strange that Mrs Fox is looking after a German girl?’
The Keeping of Secrets Page 3