Above Us the Sky

by Milly Adams

  Her legs were turning to water, and she slipped down the door until she was sitting on the floor. The doormat was prickly, the flagstones cold. Miss F and Jake found her when she did not return to the kitchen. It was Miss F and Jake who looked after her all day, and as they sat under the flowering cherry tree Phyllie wondered how all the broken hearts in the world could ever be repaired.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mid-September, Little Mitherton

  WITH SEPTEMBER CAME a return to school: fresh sticks of chalk, which screeched against the blackboard; assembly; the ragged voices singing the morning hymn. On the second Monday Phyllie stood at the board; the long division straggled down and down. Sammy had gone down and down.

  She turned, smiling. ‘You have worksheets on your desks. You’ll note that they are inclined to curl, and that’s because …’ She paused, pointed to John, whose red hair seemed to have bleached with the summer sun. ‘Because?’

  He grinned. ‘It’s wallpaper, miss, from me mum. She says thank you for the note and call in for a cuppa.’

  Everyone was being kind, including the children, but they were used to being so when someone’s son, husband, brother, mother or daughter had been killed. Phyllie found it comforting that she was not the only one, that people understood and didn’t avoid her when they saw her but instead chatted about the ploughing, about how Jake was, and, lastly, how she was. They would look deep into her eyes, and understood when she said, ‘I will be all right, but not yet.’

  The following Thursday, Mrs Symes squeezed her hand. ‘It gets easier,’ she said, as they almost collided on the path leading up to the village hall. Phyllie carried milk, chamomile, mint and the WI’s tin of tea. There was a little sugar and a pot of honey in a basket, Mrs Symes carried her Treasurer’s kit, because the committee had changed again, though Phyllie was still the speaker gatherer. Behind them was the rest of the committee, with Miss F in full voice.

  These days they arrived to set up the hall immediately after school, because earlier meetings allowed the children to go to be looked after in the old barn, and be home in time for a good night’s sleep before school the next day. Phyllie greeted Mr Roberts, the speaker she had arranged, who talked of his adventures in Outer Mongolia when he was a young man. The slides were interesting, but verging on too many. Miss F caught his eye after half an hour and he responded with good grace, saying to the packed hall, ‘I do rather agree with your president that it is high time I tailed off. Twenty minutes is more than long enough, after that I tend to bore myself, so you must all be catatonic.’

  The laughter was genuine, the life he had lived extraordinary. Mrs Symes and Miss F countersigned his cheque during tea and honey biscuits. Mrs Symes and Phyllie smiled as they tried to work out how many years it had been since Mr Roberts had been that young man, then they fell silent. Neither of the men in their lives would have the privilege of looking back on their youth. Mrs Symes gripped Phyllie’s hand. ‘I know I repeat myself, but it does get easier; somehow one gets used to it. We have to.’

  At eight, Miss F and Phyllie walked to the old barn, their mackintoshes buttoned up against the chill of the evening. They helped Molly shut up the barn, and walked the children to their homes. They watched carefully as Jake walked, hands in pockets, avoiding their eyes, kicking at stones, ignoring Dan, ignoring Francois, who trailed in his wake. They longed to help, but since the news he had withdrawn into a dark, silent misery. He had become a stranger, he walked alone with his nature journal, he dug his hands into his pockets and refused to wear his dungarees because they were cissy, as Ron and Bryan always said, and to whom, inexplicably, he seemed to be drawing closer. Worse, he had stopped tending the horses. Andy seemed to understand, and said that the lad would come round, he was angry at the world, and perhaps himself. ‘He’s survived, you see,’ Andy had said.

  ‘Andy’s right, he is angry,’ Phyllie said as they walked along.

  Miss F nodded. ‘Death is the ultimate rejection.’

  ‘But Francois?’ Phyllie stroked the dog’s head, and pulled his ear. ‘Why? Is he frightened of caring too?’

  ‘Probably. We must just wait it out. The village understands, so we must. Think back to that little evacuee, what was his name? He came to us from Bristol, then within two days his mother was killed in the bombing.’

  ‘Yes,’ Phyllie said. ‘Wasn’t it Albert someone? I’d forgotten, he was with us such a short while. He set fire to one of Joe’s haystacks, and then kicked Nora, his foster mother, blaming us all. I can understand. I could kick someone most days.’

  Miss F nudged her. ‘You keep your feet to yourself, young lady.’

  Phyllie smiled. It seemed strange to find things amusing, but it was so fleeting and then the misery returned.

  They walked on. The moon was bright; a bomber’s moon. No, a hunter’s moon is what it should be called. But was that any better? Bombers were hunters. Shut up, Phyllie told herself. Andy had ploughed the lower field today; the rolled sods glistened. So straight, they were – the furrows, that is. She was tired; her thoughts were fragmenting, the agonising ache was creeping out of its crevice and swiping her, just as it swiped Jake, and had swiped Mrs Symes, and the rest of those left behind.

  She heard the owl. ‘Listen,’ she said to the children.

  Bryan called, ‘They look good stuffed.’

  ‘That’s enough of that,’ Phyllie answered. They were on the outskirts of the village. Jake shouted, suddenly, ‘I bet I could hit one with an air pistol.’

  ‘You’re all talk, you are, Yid,’ laughed Bryan.

  ‘And that’s enough of that,’ Miss F roared, barging alongside the crocodile, yanking Bryan out by his ear.

  He yelled, ‘Ouch.’

  Jake swung round. ‘I can fight my own battles, I can. It’s my mum and dad’s fault I’m a Yid. And I won’t be one any more.’

  ‘You be quiet, Master Jake, or I’ll have you by the ear too.’ Miss F dragged Bryan to the front. ‘You’ll walk with me, and if I had soap, I’d wash your mouth out.’ Phyllie was looking from one to the other, bewildered and aghast.

  Bryan muttered, ‘I’ll get my brother on you.’

  Miss F said, ‘I’d be delighted to discuss the matter with Eddie. He has been through my hands before he changed schools, and I suspect he remembers every delightful minute.’

  Phyllie felt utterly exhausted. Well, it was late, and she had a call to make in the morning, to her mother. It was what she had decided she must do, after agonising for too long, because she couldn’t bear the shame of explaining her condition to all those of Little Mitherton who were being so very kind.

  But on the other hand, how could she leave while Jake was sliding heaven knew where? She would take him. It would solve the problem of Ron. She half stumbled into a pothole, righted herself. Heard the owl again. Yes, that was the only answer. But … What about Miss F? How would she manage alone? When would they return? Would people be kind to the baby if they did? Would her mother have her? Sammy had said she’d soften with grandchildren, but this one was illegitimate. If it had been her father, he’d have … Oh God, her head was splitting. She couldn’t think. One thing at a time, that was it. Just one thing at a time.

  She waited until Jake had reluctantly taken Francois round the block before school, and Miss F was out feeding Mr Milford’s hens, because he was with his sister for a while. She asked the operator for the number, swallowing down her relentless nausea. It was her mother who answered. ‘St Luke’s Presbytery.’

  ‘Mum, it’s me.’

  ‘Ah, you sound well, I’m pleased. You’re obviously getting over it.’

  Getting over it? ‘It’s only been a month, Mum. No, I’m not quite tickety-boo.’ She pressed her lips together. Shut up. She softened her voice. ‘But I’m getting there.’

  ‘Yes, you will. And as I said, there will be someone else for you. There’s that nice farmer’s son.’

  Phyllie’s hand was clammy on the receiver, clammy with rage. Cold
sweat was breaking out all over her body. It beaded her forehead. She reached out a finger and traced her face in the gloom of the hall mirror, rushing out the words. ‘Actually, Mum, I need your help. Sammy thought that you would like grandchildren. I hope you will. You see, I’m pregnant. It’s Sammy’s. Can I come to London, to be with you and Frankie, just until I’ve had it? I need to bring Jake, too. I’d be so grateful. I really do need help, Mum, and we seem to be getting on better, don’t you think? You liked the wool, you were trying to find the words to tell me of Sammy because you didn’t want to upset me. We are family, after all. I really need this, for me and Jake.’

  There was a long silence. She could hear her mother breathing, almost feel the moistness, then came her voice, high-pitched and strained. ‘Phyllis Saunders, you are right, I would like grandchildren, but not like this. Yes, I feel we were reaching an understanding, and so you must surely see that you can’t possibly come to a place of God. I mean, this is no example for a presbytery to set its faithful. Oh, I just can’t think about this. It is too dreadful, and how can you conceive of working with children with this … this disgrace about to burst upon you? Whatever will everyone think? I simply do not want to hear any more about it, do you understand, until it is sorted. I’m so deeply upset, Phyllis, and I can’t think where I have gone wrong.’

  In the background she heard Frankie calling, ‘Everything all right, Mother? Is it for me?’

  ‘No, it’s not for you,’ her mother replied.

  Phyllie tried once more. ‘Please, Mum, let me come to live with you, just for—’

  The line buzzed in Phyllie’s ear. Her mother had hung up.

  Her hand shook as she replaced the receiver. Why had she thought it would be any different? Was she mad? A draught ruffled her hair. She had asked Sarah, the village hairdresser, to cut it shorter still. Why? Sarah had asked. She didn’t know except that she wanted to be shorn in grief.

  ‘Phyllie?’ Jake called. There was an edge to his voice but there always was these days.

  ‘Coming.’ She straightened her blouse, shaking all over. There was no bump and though her breasts were sore, she had time, but to do what? Jake had his satchel on, and was waiting impatiently as she entered the kitchen. She collected her bag of tricks, and he swung out of the back door in front of her. She followed him to school, while he rushed on ahead, only to slope around the playground, alone. She found him by the bicycle shed, with Ron and Bryan, who slouched off when she arrived. She held Jake’s shoulders, then stroked his face, seeing the darkness beneath his eyes, the paleness of his skin. ‘Dan is your best friend, he cares for you, and you ignore him. Friends can be a great support, Jake, and your dad liked him. Don’t you remember?’

  Jake stuck out his lower lip, and said, ‘What do I care? Mum went off and left me, she preferred her parents to me, and I just heard you ask your mum if you can go and live with her. People leave all the time. Anyway, it doesn’t matter: Ron and Bryan said they wanted to be my friend, now I don’t want to be a Yid any more.’

  Phyllie stared: the draught, her last words to her mother. Oh no. ‘I love you, Jake. I just am not very well, I wanted to go to Mum for a while, but I wanted to take you with me. Anyway, I’m not going. I’m staying here. Of course I am.’

  ‘But you asked her. That’s what’s important. You were going to leave me.’

  ‘I was going to take you with me, I’ve just said.’

  He stared at her. She swallowed, feeling sick, guilty, utterly desperate. He said, ‘But your mother doesn’t like me. So why would you make me go there?’

  School gave her life a structure, a reason to ‘be’, she thought, as she stood in the playground at lunch break, but all the while guilt and distress tore at her. She chose to do playground duty so that she could keep an eye on Jake. Dan was playing with Bertie, a lad from Bermondsey who had evacuated down here in 1941.

  After school she walked all the classes to the old barn as usual. She prepared milk on a trestle table at the end furthest from the table tennis, and a biscuit, but one each only. She stood close, keeping watch, because last week there had not been enough, though there should have been. All the while she was watching Jake, wanting to talk to him, but to say what?

  Andy approached her now, smiling because Jake had just asked if he could come back and work with the horses. ‘He seems eager,’ Andy said. Phyllie felt a huge relief as Jake stood in the old barn entrance.

  She smiled at Jake. ‘Wonderful,’ she called.

  Jake turned and headed to the stables. He had not smiled in return. Mrs Price from the post office was on duty in the barn as well today, and halfway through the evening Phyllie left her while she crossed the yard to the stables. Joe was peering into Desmond’s stall. He was new but settling in well. Phyllie called, ‘May I have a word?’

  She had not spoken properly to him since the news had arrived. Joe looked up, the cigarette behind his ear as usual, and she found comfort in that. ‘You all right, lass?’

  ‘Thank you, yes. But I wondered about Jake. I know it’s only been an hour or so, but how is he?’

  Andy was heaving a great heavy bridle up onto a peg. Dust motes danced in the air, bits of straw flew up as Doris neighed in her stall. Joe looked thoughtful as he limped to the open door of the stables and leaned against the doorpost, taking out his cigarette and fingering it. ‘Oh, well, he’s a mite angry, and poor old Francois is getting the brunt of it, but you know that. No mother except you to speak of, for now anyway, and who knows where poor Mrs Kaplan is? Don’t ’elp that she went away willingly. Don’t forget, you’re deep in the “missing” too. Grown-up glums is frightening to a child. He wants to break eggs, he does, with a bleedin’ mallet. Life’s a trial, sometimes, but only sometimes. It perks up in between.’

  Andy had finished his task, and now he joined them. He was smiling at her, his back to Desmond who was nudging him. ‘Didn’t ask for a sermon, did you? Reckon you just wanted to know if he’d settled back in here this evening. Yes, he has. I reckon he finds solace with the horses because they expect nothing of him except to be kept clean and tidy, and he doesn’t hurt for them, if you know what I mean. He loves you, Phyllie, so he hurts for you, and for himself. He’s chucking away things like his Jewishness because … Oh, I don’t know, perhaps he thinks it hasn’t done him much good being loyal. It all gets such a muddle in your head when it goes so dark. We’ll keep watch on him, won’t we, Dad? He’s over in the tack room, giving the bridles a good polish. Let him kick himself out. The real Jake’ll come back.’

  Phyllie couldn’t bear the kindness, it would have been better if he had been his usual gruff self. She nodded, and tried to smile, wanting to tell someone, anyone, of the mistake she had made. She turned on her heel and hurried back to the old barn, and the laughter of children. It was then it struck her that she’d been unfair. Andy was no longer unkind. Joe was right. Things ‘perked up’, but how could they for her? She didn’t deserve it. Panic stirred the grief. She heard Joe then: ‘Wait up, lass. Just wait.’

  She stopped halfway across the yard, looking ahead, seeing and hearing the flapping tarpaulin, which was slung over the barn once more, as a sheet of iron further along had slipped down in the last bad storm. Soon Andy would renew all the joists, he had promised.

  The dogs slunk out of the kennels, sniffing at the barn doorway for Francois, who had been allowed into their gang. But Jake had not called into Myrtle Cottage for him, and he would be curled on the rug in front of the Aga, grieving too.

  Joe was lighting his cigarette at last. He drew deeply, exhaled, and the wind snatched the smoke. ‘You need to tell someone about the baby, lass.’

  It didn’t surprise her that he knew. There’d been something in his eyes when she’d fainted at the wheatfield.

  ‘I have,’ she said. ‘I told my mother who says pretty much that I am no better than I ought to be. She’s quite right, of course. I’m not a nice person to know, not the sort of person to teach children. I will have th
is baby, Joe. I don’t know how, but I will, because then Sammy will go on, and I won’t have lost him completely. Besides, I want the baby for herself.’

  There, if they were in the business of sermons then this was hers. She felt some of the weight lifting. She looked at him, not sure what she was expecting. He was eyeing the tarpaulin.

  ‘Better get a few more ropes on that, I reckon.’ His roll-up had burned to a stub. He looked at it and dropped it to the cobbles. It hissed. He ground it to nothing. ‘Tell Miss F. She’ll ’ave the answer to it all, and there’ll be none of that “not a nice person” in Little Mitherton, you mark my bloody words. You were to be married. The war spoilt that. We’ve a lot of bossy old bags ’ere, but there are hearts of gold buried under the bustling. So, it’s a girl, then? That be nice.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m sure of it, but I don’t know why.’

  That evening, after she had tucked in Jake, insisting on kissing his forehead, which he reluctantly allowed, she said, ‘Another day over, and we’re getting there.’ It wasn’t a question. She leaned down and stroked Francois. ‘He’s a good and faithful friend, Jake. Like Dan and Miss F. I would never leave you. Where I go, you go. You must believe me. You would, if you didn’t feel so sad. I would have discussed all this with you when I had it sorted, but we’re going nowhere. We’re staying here. You and me, staying here.’

  There was no reply. Jake just turned to the wall and pulled the blankets up over his head. ‘Sleep well,’ she said. Again there was no reply.

  Downstairs, the evening news was beginning, and a mug of chamomile tea steamed on the side table on her end of the sofa. Miss F was pulling a face as she ate a piece of toast with a skim of butter, and a lathering of honey. ‘It’s the butter I miss. After the war, when we’ve won, I will feast on butter until I am very fat.’

  Phyllie laughed somehow. ‘You’ll never be fat; you’ll run your brogues ragged as always, and the weight will not dare to stay on those hips.’