Above Us the Sky

by Milly Adams

  Marjorie slid from Phyllie’s hip and scuttled for the verge. ‘You can fall under lots of different wheels in a war, can’t you, miss? Do cart wheels make jam of us too, and are there hobgoblins?’

  ‘No one is going to make jam of anyone, and I’ve already said that there are no hobgoblins. Come along, quickly now.’ Melanie, Jake and Dan headed for the verge, lugging the cases behind them. Soon they were all hard up against a beech hedge. Some yelped.

  ‘It’s bleedin stinging nettles,’ Ron yelled.

  Quite, Phyllie thought as they stung her through her stockings, which were laddered by now. She called, ‘We’ll find some dock leaves. Do not step into the roadway, no matter how much you are stung, until the cart has passed.’

  She watched the cart trundle along, heard the billeting officer as she stood in the road waving the cart to a halt. ‘You should have been here ages ago, Joe Bartlett.’

  The cart creaked to a stop in front of her. ‘You can keep your gob tight shut, an’ all, missis, just cos you’ve got a bleedin’ uniform. I’ve hay to get in and I don’t need to be taking me cart to gather up a load of perishing kids, just you think on that.’

  Jake looked at Dan, and then at Phyllie. They all grinned. Dan whispered, ‘That’s her told.’

  Mr Stevens called, ‘All the seven-year-olds, bring your cases to the cart. There’ll be a bit of room for the kind gentleman to take the tired ones.’

  Phyllie shooed Class B past those who had now moved back onto the track. The cases were heaved on board by Mr Stevens, while Joe Bartlett remained seated, lighting a limp cigarette he had taken from behind his ear. The horse eased itself from foot to foot, swishing his tail. Marjorie said from the cart, ‘I don’t want you up here, Melanie Adams, you smell horrid.’

  ‘Jake can help me up, and he smells too,’ Melanie said. ‘But it’s because Francois is French and doesn’t understand manners. I expect Ron smells worse.’ Jake’s sigh was loud as he stood next to Phyllie. She realised Melanie was correct. There was a smell coming off Jake, or was it her own jacket from the piggy-back?

  Ron called, ‘Sweet as violets, I am.’

  Only a few spaces remained, so the smallest put their cases onto the cart, and the column continued to lug their own. The billeting officer waved them ever onwards, coughing through Joe Bartlett’s dust. Phyllie felt he enjoyed every tiny particle he threw up.

  Fifteen minutes later they came to the first cottages, mostly thatched, with women and elderly couples waving from their gates. Children emerged from the gardens to run alongside the column, yelling, ‘It’s the vacees.’ The villagers came to take the children’s cases, and chattered as they headed for a large hall in front of which stood a war memorial.

  So many names, and no doubt, more to come, Phyllie thought. But, please, not Sammy. For a moment she smelled the diesel, and felt his arms.

  The billeting officer called from the entrance to the hall, ‘Well done, everyone. Now, the Women’s Institute has prepared a delicious tea, though we were expecting you much earlier, so the sandwiches are no doubt dry and curly. I dare say you’ll remember Mr Manners and smile nicely, though. After refreshment, you will meet your new foster parents. These are the people who will take care of you until your parents collect you, which might take some while, no use pretending it won’t.’

  A woman next to Phyllie who was carrying two cases muttered to her friend, ‘Oh, let’s just get everyone in a state, shall we? Curly sandwiches and reminders of absent parents, I ask you. Our Miss Featherstone will have covered the sandwiches with greaseproof paper, you mark my words. The children will just have to take it day by day, so don’t let’s remind them it could be years. High time Hilary de Bere took her smart uniform off to her big house in Swanwick village, and let us get on with it. Thank the Lord she is off to America any day now to sit out things there.’

  The billeting officer waved them through the door into a hall bedecked with bunting. Phyllie saw trestle tables set up, loaded with plates covered, indeed, in greaseproof. At the end of the hall was a stage. It was here that the cases were taken.

  A tall elderly woman in brogues and a tweed suit stood in the centre of the room, holding a clipboard. She was flanked by others who wore aprons and headscarves tied as turbans, as well as the broadest smiles. At the windows were blackout shutters; low-watt electric lights cast a yellow glow.

  The billeting officer, Mrs de Bere, marched towards the women. ‘Miss Featherstone, at last we land. I’m orf in a moment for my dinner because Harold will be famished and ratty as hell. I will be back in one hour at which point the foster parents will draw into harbour to collect their charges. I’ll take Mr Stevens; he could, I know, do with a gin and some succour.’

  She turned on her heel, almost bumping into Ron who was charging towards the food tables. Miss Featherstone dodged to head him off. ‘Back you go, young man. I’ll let you know when we’re ready for the off.’ She led him by the ear back to his friends and stood, surveying what Phyllie felt must seem a motley crew. Silence slowly fell amongst the children. The woman oozed authority and Phyllie wished she had just a teaspoon of the stuff herself.

  Miss Featherstone smiled at Phyllie, and then the children, and it was as though the sun had come out. Phyllie felt her shoulders drop from around her ears for the first time that day. Miss Featherstone tucked the clipboard under her arm and turned towards the food tables. ‘Ladies, covers off please.’

  She swung back to the children who were milling, talking, even crying. ‘Children, on your left you will see Mrs Speedie, who most certainly is. You will note she has a bowl of warm water. You will wash your hands. Miss Deacon stands next to her with a towel.’ There was utter silence in the room. Even Mr Stevens stood stock-still and not once had Miss Featherstone raised her voice.

  She continued, ‘Miss Deacon will dry said hands. Children, you will then progress towards the food. The first child will go to the left end of the tables, the second to the right, and so on. You will then move towards the middle of the tables. Miss Harvey is the middle point.’

  Miss Featherstone gestured to a small plump woman of about sixty who stood at the midway point along the trestle tables. ‘As you move along, the kind ladies of Little Mitherton Women’s Institute will place upon your plates a selection of sandwiches, which, please note, Mrs de Bere, are moist and possess not a curl.’

  Miss Harvey grinned. Mrs de Bere, standing next to Mr Stevens, shuffled her feet, no longer smiling as Miss Featherstone continued: ‘We have sausage rolls, courtesy of our Pig Club; lettuce and tomatoes, courtesy of the allotments; cakes and biscuits. When you reach Miss Harvey, you have completed the food run, so return to these tables, here.’ She gestured to the tables on which glasses and jugs of barley water waited. ‘In one hour you will be whisked off to a nice comfortable bed, by lovely kind people, which I’m sure is quite the thing when you’re tired and a mite fretful. You may begin.’

  The children, looking dazed, headed for the bowl of water, queuing neatly, even Ron. Phyllie felt as though she should salute. Miss Featherstone came to her. ‘You, my dear Miss Saunders, will have a nice cup of tea because we don’t rise to gin. Go to our little Mrs Dewar over there, and she will sort it all out.’ She pointed towards a door labelled ‘Kitchen’.

  Phyllie found her voice. ‘I think I’d rather stay here, if you don’t mind. Just to keep an eye on things.’

  ‘Why should I mind? I applaud you. I see that your headmaster has retired from the fray, heading for more salubrious fare. Higher ranks are so often a complete pain in the arse, are they not? The good thing, however, is that for at least an hour they will not be here, meddling. I include myself in with meddlers, of course, being the headmistress with whom you will be working. No doubt you will find me a similar pain in the arse.’

  With that she swept away, conferring with Miss Harvey, gesticulating with a sweeping gesture that took in the hall. It was then she spotted Francois.

  Oh Lord, thought Phyllie as the hea
dmistress headed in her direction again, brogues clipping the wooden floor, and brown lisle stockings wrinkled at the ankles.

  ‘Dogs are not permitted.’

  Phyllie shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Featherstone, this one is. He’s survived Dunkirk. Jake will take him for a walk, but I insist that he is permitted to remain with us, just until we can sort out something else. He has earned it, and so have we. It has been a trying journey and I’m not in the mood for argument.’

  She had to look up to meet Miss Featherstone’s eyes. Good heavens, the woman must be nearly six foot tall. Jake was standing nearby, flanked by Dan and Melanie, the rope wound round his hand, his face determined. Phyllie could almost see his heels digging into the floor.

  Miss Featherstone looked long and hard into Phyllie’s eyes, then nodded, turning away, saying over her shoulder, ‘I see. I did wonder about a rather ghastly pong. I presume it’s the dog? Well, young man’ – she bent to speak to Jake – ‘off you go then, take him for walkies. I dare say Miss Harvey will save a few morsels for you and your friends, and perhaps even for the dog.’

  Melanie was with Jake. She had removed her mackintosh and hung it on the back of a chair, but now she reached for it again, as though to follow him and Dan, but Phyllie grabbed her, saying, ‘Thank you, Miss Featherstone. Melanie, to the bathroom, just for a moment.’

  In the village hall bathroom, which comprised one toilet for the use of everyone and one sink, she sniffed around the child. There was barely any smell, so she guessed it must be the dog. She washed her nonetheless and scooted her out to have some tea, dragging her own jacket off. No, there wasn’t much smell if any.

  Within an hour the villagers were arriving and Phyllie was amazed to see Ron gliding from one family to another, talking and smiling – it was a side of him she had not seen before. Soon, the billeting officer was back with Mr Stevens in tow, weaving his way through the crowd of adults and children towards her. ‘I’m off now, back to the station, Miss Saunders, or shall I say, Phyllie?’

  Phyllie, who could smell the gin on his breath, stared. ‘Off? Where to?’

  ‘It seems I’m being sent on to Somerset where our other classes are installed. Don’t worry, Phyllie, you have Miss Featherstone as your superior and she is clearly most able, although a touch scary. I think she’ll keep even Ron in order. I am sorry to go. I feel I would have enjoyed this village, and working with you. You are a good teacher, never forget that.’

  For a moment he looked exhausted, but also sad. He turned and left, but then hurried back, leaning close and speaking quietly. ‘My dear, just watch that Ron Cummins. Far from doing daring deeds in the Middle East, as the boy believes, his father is actually doing time for grievous bodily harm to a Jewish socialist who had the temerity to heckle at one of those awful Mosley blackshirt meetings. I feel concern for Jakub Kaplan because the Cummins boy has certain inherited beliefs. Do you understand?’

  Phyllie nodded. ‘Yes, I do.’

  Mr Stevens was checking his watch, and turned. ‘Good luck,’ he called.

  Thanks a bunch, she thought, but didn’t say.

  By nine thirty most of the children had gone with their foster families. The cases had been cleared from the stage, all but Melanie’s and Jake’s. Miss Featherstone was deep in conversation with an elderly couple who were preparing to leave with one of the boys. Finally they shook their heads and left.

  Miss Featherstone came to Phyllie, taking her to one side as Jake and Melanie sat on chairs, swinging their legs, their heads sunk in weariness, seeming so small in this large hall. ‘A young man – Ron someone – has been letting it be known that these two are inveterate bed wetters and the boy is a Jew with strange eating habits, which is clearly untrue, as he has enjoyed several sausage rolls. What’s more, the dog goes where he goes, apparently, which again is untrue, as I know you intend to sort something out. The thing is, our foster parents didn’t know. I apologise, I wasn’t on top of the situation.’

  Phyllie frowned. She should have suspected something was wrong when she saw Ron circulating. How stupid she was, because it was she who should have been on top of it all.

  ‘I’ve lived next door to Jake for a few years; he’ll eat anything and he’s not a bed wetter, neither, as far as I know, is Melanie. What on earth is the matter with these people? What is it doing to these two to be left, unwanted?’ Around them the ladies of the WI were clearing up the debris. Francois had done very well out of the bits dropped on the floor.

  Miss Featherstone drew herself up to her great height. ‘These people, as you call them, are on the whole kindly folk, opening their homes to strangers.’

  ‘As long as they’re no trouble,’ Phyllie snapped.

  Miss Featherstone shook her head slightly, and a faint smile appeared. ‘Perhaps you’re right, but they’re also concerned at their ability to cope with someone ‘‘different’’. It’s not religious, I’m sure. We’ve never had any of that nonsense here in Little Mitherton. It’s just one problem too many when rationing has hit, when bombers or jackboots are expected, and they have been asked to take in children for what could be years. I will be talking to everyone at the next WI meeting, never fear.’

  Miss Harvey approached, a tea towel in her hand that she flapped towards the two children. ‘This is insufferable, the poor wee mites, and not like our villagers. But do you notice, Audrey, there’s a wee bit of a tiddle smell around them? It’s sort of stale and not like a child’s.’

  Audrey Featherstone drew closer to the children, crossed her arms and returned to Miss Harvey and Phyllie. ‘As always, dear Catherine, you are the master of understatement. It’s not a wee anything. It’s a pong and that dog needs a bath.’

  ‘Well, I’m taking that poor wee girl home. Miss Deacon has already taken Dan, but neither of us can take two, or a dog.’ Catherine Harvey tapped Audrey Featherstone on the arm. ‘But that is not a problem because I can see you’re already thinking about how you can clear the boxroom for the lad.’

  Phyllie had been listening carefully and now she left them and approached the children. Melanie and Jake’s mackintoshes hung over the back of their chairs, and around and about was the heavy urine smell. She sniffed, honing in. She felt in the pocket of Jake’s mackintosh and drew out a damp crumpled wad of stinking newspaper. She could see that it was The Times, which she had given Ron and his cohorts to clean the carriage. It had soaked the inside of Jake’s pocket. She found the same in Melanie’s.

  How could any child behave with such cruelty to others? she wondered. Well, if you had a father like Ron’s, she supposed, and a mother who cared not one jot, how else would you be?

  Melanie and Jake had turned in their chairs and were looking at her, and the newspaper. ‘It’s that Ron and his gang,’ Melanie said, beginning to cry. ‘Why, though, Miss Saunders?’

  ‘It’s my fault.’ Jake almost tipped back the chair as he stepped away from the table, dragging Francois to his feet. ‘It’s my fault and my dad’s fault because Ron knows I’m a bleedin’ Yid now, and because Francois peed on him. So I’m going.’ He dragged Francois towards the door.

  Miss Featherstone and Miss Harvey paled with shock, frozen to immobility. Not Phyllie, though. She tore after Jake, snatching the dog’s rope from his hand, and held the hot, sweaty and weeping boy to her. ‘You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying with me, and I never want to hear you call yourself by that disgusting name again. We’ll find somewhere together. I don’t know where, perhaps a little cottage, anywhere. You and me, Jake, with Francois, do you understand?’

  Miss Featherstone came marching up to them then. ‘Absolutely no need for dramatics, Miss Saunders. You were to billet with me anyway, and yes, Miss Harvey is quite right, I have been thinking about how to clear the boxroom. So now I will have two billeted with me, and in the morning you will take young Francois to stay at Joe Bartlett’s farm, where he can romp with the other dogs, and you may visit him daily, young man. So that’s that. Have we a plan?’
>
  Chapter Four

  THE NEXT MORNING, Phyllie woke, her head splitting as the light from the early dawn poured through the window. For a moment she couldn’t imagine where she was. She eased herself upright. She was at the table, in Miss Featherstone’s kitchen in Myrtle Cottage, and had been sleeping with her head on the table. She remembered then that she had been woken in the early hours by Francois who they had settled on a blanket in this large kitchen. He had clearly disapproved and whined, endlessly. She had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, lifted the bedroom blackout blind just five inches so she could see her way to her door in the moonlight and joined him downstairs, concerned that he would wake Miss Featherstone.

  She looked for him now, and there he was, curled up by the old leather sofa that stood against the wall, at right angles to the Aga. There too, stretched out on the sofa, was Jake, sound asleep, his arm hanging down to touch Francois. The door into the hall opened and Miss Featherstone stood in her tartan wool dressing gown, which looked remarkably like Phyllie’s father’s, viewing them all. Phyllie hoped she hadn’t dribbled onto the oilcloth that covered the table, and surreptitiously wiped it, and her chin.

  ‘What a sorry little group you are.’ The voice was grumpy but the smile warm. ‘Well, get dressed, and I’ll sort out some breakfast. Joe Bartlett will have been up for hours, getting in the cows for milking, so you can nip off there with Francois. Then, Miss Saunders, you can borrow Maeve, my bicycle, to check on your charges and make sure that all is well. I’ve been thinking of young Ron. I wasn’t paying attention and I see that the Andertons have taken him on. You might want to cast your eye closely over the situation, paying heed to their two ghastly boys. Eddie, in particular, is a ne’er-do-well with a gang. His father’s in prison.’