by Milly Adams
Francois had leapt up in the air at the sound of his name, and was now chasing his tail. Isaac picked up a stick and threw it, and all five of them chased it. So it went on, and they had one more day, but she wanted to be alone with Sammy on that last day, so she could remember every moment, and add it to the memories of all the years they’d had together, and would have again. She must believe that.
The next day, as the morning went on, Miss F gave each of the men a hamper. ‘Take this off, and go your separate ways. Spend some time with your son, Mr Kaplan. Sammy, if I may call you that, concentrate on your fiancée; she loves you so very much.’
Sammy kissed Miss F, and she flapped him away. ‘Off, off, the lot of you. I have church to attend. You will know, Mr Kaplan, that Phyllie takes Jake to commune with nature as there isn’t a synagogue nearby. Or should that be the temple, I never do know. I know that this walk should take place on Saturday, your Sabbath, but somehow—’
‘Miss F, he can go wherever he pleases. If he wishes to go to church, then of course he can. There’s only one God, I suppose.’ If indeed there is such a thing, his voice implied, though he didn’t speak the words.
While Jake and Isaac went to the stream, Phyllie and Sammy made their way back to the woods, looking up at the canopy of trees, as the birds fluttered up and off at their approach. A deer bounded across the path. Phyllie said, ‘If Joe was here, that would be shot and cooked.’
‘Quite right too.’ Sammy swung her hand as they walked. ‘I gather from Isaac that Jake and Andy have made their peace?’
Phyllie pointed to a squirrel scrambling up the trunk of the horse chestnut. ‘Pests they are. Yes, Andy saw Ron throw Jake’s plimsolls into the water. He also saw that Jake responded calmly, without rancour. Ron is a problem, especially hooked into Bryan and Eddie’s gang. As long as he “belongs” there, no penalty seems to make any difference. Miss F and I think all he needs to know is that his mother cares, that he “belongs” in her gang. We tried just the other week to encourage her to come down again – I telephoned the pub and offered her the train fare. She said she was too busy. We suggested we arrange a time for Ron to call her at the pub. She said she had more to do than keep tabs on the “little bleeder”. As for his father, well, we know all about him but Ron, in his ignorance, is proud to think he’s away fighting for king and country. I suppose, his behaviour towards Jake emulates his father’s behaviour in support of Mosley.’
When they reached the oak Sammy dropped the hamper, and took Phyllie in his arms. ‘I don’t want to go back,’ he said, into her hair. ‘I want to stay here for ever and ever and ever, with you. Together we could sort the lad out.’
She kissed him. ‘We have all afternoon and then the rest of our lives, just as we’ve had all the years together, growing up. We’re so lucky, Sammy. I can’t remember a time without you – looking after me, driving me mad, showing me things, making me feel as though I belong. Frankie said to choose love, always.’
‘I expect that Mrs S doesn’t quite see it that way.’ Sammy laughed. ‘I doubt plumbing will be good enough, but just you wait until her lav blocks, and then we’ll see. But she’s bound to change once the children come. She’ll love ’em if they look like her or Frankie. All is lost if they look like me.’
They were both laughing now, and they kissed, and kissed, and sank to their knees and it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough, because though they talked of the future, she wasn’t sure she believed there was one any more.
Later, they lay quietly, their arms around one another, looking up through the leaves to the blue sky beyond. She had never known such happiness, and knew no shame, as she supposed she should. It was war and all they had was this moment and to lie with him, to feel him on her, in her, was what she had wanted. She wished that the vicar would not leave the village today, and drive this man to Portland, as he had promised, out of the kindness of his very big heart.
Sammy said, ‘It’s so beautiful here. I will think of it when I’m on board. It’s heaven; the woods, the leaves against the sky, Jake, Francois, and always you. I love you so much, darling Phyllie. Whatever happens, never doubt that.’
Chapter Sixteen
Mid-August 1941, Little Mitherton
THE SCHOOL HOLIDAYS were halfway through, and though it had been an indifferent year weather-wise, the children had taken full advantage of the good days. They had rushed through the early-morning chores of soft fruit picking in July, and now the apple picking of August. In the afternoons, they disappeared in groups into the woods, meadows or lanes, taking sandwiches, playing Cowboys and Indians, or careering on bikes, girls and boys together. Miss F wanted fresh air in the lungs of every child, she had said.
‘I don’t want a lot of silly sitting about inside playing with dolls when the sun is shining,’ she had ordered, even when parents had come down to stay in the vicarage attic. No parent had voiced dissent. One didn’t, with Miss F; besides, they agreed with her. On days that rained the children holed up in the old barn, playing table tennis, or just playing, under the eagle eye of whoever was on duty.
Miss Deacon monitored the table-tennis league, which, as well as their own village, included Great Mitherton and Swanwick. The vicar was referee, and there was something about a dog collar that stopped any querying of the decision. Little Mitherton was climbing up in the league, and so too was Ron’s skill. Phyllie knew that Sammy would be so pleased, and mentioned this in her latest letter, which was long and loving, because at last she had received one from him.
It had arrived today, in a creased envelope, with a note scribbled in pencil on the back. It was an apology from his depot shipmate, saying that he should have posted it weeks ago, when Sammy asked him, before he went on patrol, but he had forgotten. She had read it in the hall, tearing the envelope open, unable to wait, because there had been such silence from Sammy since he had left.
She had feared that he had thought she was cheap, and just a good-time girl. Each day her panic and pain had been overwhelming, and it was all because this silly clot had forgotten to post the letter. Daft beggar. She scanned Sammy’s writing, his beautiful writing, leaning against the hall wall. He had written words of love, asking her to talk to the vicar about marrying them on his next leave, hating every minute away from her, loving her more than life itself, longing for the war to be over so they need never be apart again.
She posted her reply on her way to the milking parlour after breakfast, at the crack of dawn, walking along with Jake and Francois, but wanting to dance in the light early-morning warmth. They were to marry. They were to marry. They were to marry.
‘You’re in a good mood, miss.’ Sandra was striding just ahead, her plaits swinging, her dungarees a little baggy. One strap had slipped off her shoulder. Evie’s were immaculate as she walked at her side, taking neat steps, her parting straight. ‘Do cows bite?’ Sandra added, shouting over her shoulder, and yanking up her strap.
Jake laughed, ‘Don’t be daft.’
Phyllie tapped him on the shoulder. ‘That’s quite enough of that. You wouldn’t have known when you first arrived. Stop showing off.’
Jake huffed, and ran forward with Francois at his heel. Andy allowed the dog to come with Jake to the farm now, which had endeared him to the inhabitants of Myrtle Cottage like nothing else would have done, Miss F declared.
Phyllie grinned to herself as her own dungaree strap slipped off her shoulder. Everything was improving, and soon she would be Mrs Williams. Swallows were soaring into the sky, the pheasants flapped out of the oats. At that, Francois broke ranks and bounded forward, yelping. This Jake allowed, because he was on a hopeless quest along the lane, and he knew better than to dart off into a field. What’s more, he would come back when called. Far over, the fields of wheat were being harvested, with the Scouts busy following Andy as he drove the Fordson and the reaper, gathering up the straw into stooks.
The cows were in the milking parlour when they arrived, and Jake turned right for the stabl
es, while the girls turned left. The milking parlour was dark, the air full of the scent of hay and cow pats. The girls stopped, and Phyllie urged them on towards the cows lined up in their stalls, tearing hay from the nets. Joe and Old Stan waved, and it was Phyllie who showed the girls where to wash their hands, and then she squatted on the short milking stool, with a pail between her legs and another with warm water and a clean cloth at her side to wash their udders. ‘The thing is, not to be frightened.’
At that moment Daisy shifted on her feet and swiped with her tail. It caught Phyllie across the face. The little girls laughed. Phyllie removed a hair from her mouth. ‘It’s her way of saying hello.’
She washed and dried the udder and teats, and settled to milk. ‘Now, don’t tug, just squeeze and stroke downwards, see?’ The teats were warm, the squirt of milk made a high-pitched sound as it hit the side of the pail. By the end of milking it would be full of frothing goodness. Sometimes Phyllie thought she’d like to draw or paint the patterns of a mixed farm: the milking, the harvesting, the sowing. She must suggest to Jake that a day in the milking shed might enhance his nature journal, for they still spent their Sunday mornings notating the natural world. She leaned her head against Daisy’s flank, and smiled. Would she marry Sammy in St James’s? Of course, where else? Would her mother come? Her smile faded but she wouldn’t dwell on that.
‘Can I ’ave a go, miss?’ Sandra asked, dragging Phyllie back to the present. She rose, and the girls took their turns. Sandra took to it like a duck to water, but the whole thing seemed a step too far for Evie who couldn’t bear the feel of the teats and refused to do more than tinker. This annoyed Daisy, who whacked her tail sideways, startling Evie who leapt off her stool, spilling the milk. It ran down the slope and into the gutter.
Evie’s face crumpled and tears were a step away as Phyllie rescued the rolling pail. Sandra slipped in, righted the stool, and set to again. Evie clutched at Phyllie’s hand and whimpered, ‘I’m sorry, miss.’
‘Hey,’ she said, ‘we all have to learn.’
‘But we should waste not, want not. Milk’s on the coupon.’
Joe came up behind them, and laughed. ‘That’s about a teaspoonful, in the scheme of things, lass, but well done, all of you.’ They watched Sandra going at it like a child possessed, while Daisy stood still and chewed the cud. Joe murmured, ‘D’you reckon America will come in, now them blasted Germans be turned on Russia? Them fighting on two fronts will give us a chance, anyway, eh, lass?’
She nodded, thinking how strange it was that they were all becoming experts; but how could they not? What on earth had they all thought about before the war? She couldn’t really remember.
As they returned, the three of them sang the village version of ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ – over the shingle beach of Weymouth. It made them laugh. Phyllie left them at their respective houses, before heading towards home. Later, she’d be harvesting along with the others, but before that she had to make an appointment with the vicar. She ran down the road towards Myrtle Cottage, waving to Mrs Speedie who was clipping her privet hedge. ‘I’m getting married soon. Very soon.’
Mollie laughed. ‘Am I to sound surprised?’
She ran on, her gumboots slapping some of the mud and straw off into the road, round the side of the house and then she burst into the kitchen, ‘I’m off to the vicar in a minute, Miss F.’
Miss F was sitting at the table, her head in her hands. Phyllie rushed to her, her gumboots shedding small clumps of mud and straw. ‘What’s the matter?’
On the table was a note from Mrs Symes, which Miss F handed to her, straightening up. ‘Read it.’
Miss F, I don’t understand this. I went for sugar and I’m sure there is some missing. Not a lot, but about ten pounds. Is there an explanation? Perhaps you’d double-check the figures.
Below there were the amounts as per the stock book, and the amount that actually existed. ‘But who knew where it was? Only the usual ones,’ Phyllie almost wailed.
Miss F said, ‘I’m going to talk to Bryan and that ghastly older brother, Eddie, because, as you and I both know, they are the most devious little thieving toerags the world has ever seen. I’ll find Ron, too, because he’s still spending far too much time with them and I don’t trust the whole bag of them further than I can throw them.’ Miss F paused and stood up, thrusting back the chair, which grated on the flagstones. ‘I might be some time, and when I return, I will have some notches in my belt, you mark my words. I will require a gin. How sad we have none. I will make do with Joe’s elderberry poison.’
Rather than hang about worrying, Phyllie took herself off to the vicarage. There was no answer from the front door, but she heard laughter from the back garden; she slipped round the side of the house and stood on the terrace. Jack Thompson was standing on a ladder picking plums, while Sylvia stood on the grass holding up a wicker basket into which her husband threw the unblemished fruit.
‘You should place them carefully, Jack,’ Phyllie called. ‘They’ll bruise, for heaven’s sake. Then Mrs Symes will have your guts for garters.’
Sylvia turned, laughing. ‘Phyllie, how lovely to see you, and that’s just what I’ve been telling the idiot, but he has a hotline to God and so knows everything.’ Their new baby, Melanie, slept in her pram, but not close enough to attract the attention of the wasps. She had been named for Melanie Adams, and it had warmed the village.
‘Come on over, Phyllie, if you promise to stop nagging,’ Jack called. ‘I can have a break if you’d only say you’d like a cuppa.’
‘I’d better not; it’s business: wedding business.’ The chamomile and low-growing thyme, which grew amongst the crazy paving, oozed scent as she hurried along the path to join them. The wasps were busy doing what they do to fallen rotting fruit. She took a full basket of fruit from Jack and replaced it with an empty one from a nearby pile, while Sylvia looked at her impatiently.
‘Oh, come on, Phyllie.’ Sylvia shook her arm. ‘You say something about a wedding, and then leave it hanging. It must be Sammy. Oh, how utterly divine. What with that and Germany turning on Russia, it’s such a good day. Now, are you going to cycle over later with the cart and collect our baskets of fruit for the Preservation Centre? I’d be so grateful.’
The plum that Jack threw missed the basket. He groaned, dusting off his hands. ‘Well, that’s that, I need a cuppa, even if you two don’t. Sit with me, Phyllie, and fill me in, and let’s get it all sorted out, and leave the war to itself just for a moment.’ He started down the ladder.
Sylvia walked back to the house to make the tea. Phyllie watched, and in the pause, the sugar came to mind, again. Jack said, ‘Come on, then, tell me all.’
They sat in the heat of the sun at the pale green wooden table, while the breeze stirred the plum trees. Sylvia brought tea. Phyllie wished the table was in the shade as she’d been feeling a bit sick and dizzy from the heat recently, so she had a cup after all. It was mint, as was common all over the village now, and, what’s more, was supposed to settle stomachs. Jack and Sylvia listened, smiling, and Jack then explained that as Phyllie was resident at Little Mitherton, which her ration book could prove, there would be no problem. ‘We could call the banns, and then when he’s next on leave we can do the deed.’
There were a few more formalities but in no time at all it was sorted. Phyllie checked her watch. ‘I must go. Miss F’s on a mission, and I need to catch up with it all.’
Sylvia pulled a face. ‘Oh dear.’ That’s all anyone ever said when Miss F was on a mission, and Phyllie made herself laugh, but even though she was alive with happiness in one way, she hated the thought that Ron might have dug himself into a hole, tumbling in behind Bryan and Eddie. She had thought that his success with table tennis might woo him onto the straight and narrow, but she must not give in to doubt too easily. It could all just be a great error. She’d tell Sammy all about it this evening, when she wrote to him about the wedding. Again her heart lifted with happiness.
Miss F was waiting for her in the kitchen, a key in one hand and a glass of elderberry wine in the other. She was pacing backwards and forwards, her frown in place. She shook the key at Phyllie. ‘Ron was with them. He said to look in Jake’s mackintosh pocket, because he and Bryan saw Jake unlocking the door and returning the key to his pocket. It was there, where they said it would be.’
Phyllie took a moment to absorb her words. When she did, she snatched the key and examined the label. F Store, there it was, in Miss F’s handwriting; she had used the F as a code. Her mind was racing, searching for some common sense, and at last she found it.
‘Nonsense,’ she muttered. ‘How did the wretched little tykes know it was in Jake’s pocket? They put it there, to cover themselves. It’s so very clever. Don’t you see? If we pursue the matter of the missing sugar, they’ll say it was Jake – the proof is that you found the key in his pocket. They will say that we are covering up for Jake, by accusing them. Good grief, they should be fighting Hitler.’
She took the glass from Miss F’s hand and took a large sip. It seared her throat. Miss F snatched it back, and did the same. She paced as she did so, and then stopped in front of the photo of Miss Harvey and her together in Margate. Miss F took the photo down from the mantle over the Aga. ‘Once, in this village, things were simple. Once.’
Phyllie didn’t know what to say but after a moment she murmured, ‘There’s a war on, nothing is simple.’
Miss F sighed and replaced the photo. ‘You’re right; those boys are clever. If only we could direct them down legal channels they’d be very successful. We do nothing about the sugar. We try to extricate Ron. I will explain it to Mrs Symes and I dare say she can stretch it out. It is only ten pounds. They can have my ration.’