by Jean Hill
Hopefully, she tried to convince herself, the old girl will want to see me after all this time, though she doubted it. Primrose House and luxury for a while seemed a good proposition and she sighed with pleasurable anticipation. If nothing else it could prove to be a free holiday and a holiday she needed.
She sold the meagre furniture that she had purchased with Roberto over the past few years, together with her mother’s diamond ring. Her father had given the ring to her just before she left for Canada when he waved her off at the airport. ‘It’s a fine stone and should be worth a bit,’ he said. It had been a last-minute gesture from a man with a conscience that had started to trouble him.
‘Thanks Dad,’ she had muttered and gave him an unexpected kiss. Richard cringed but she did not notice. He had given her something valuable and for that she was grateful. The fact that it had belonged to her mother was unimportant. She was not sentimental.
Felicity wore it for a while, showed it off to her colleagues at work, then thought better of that and placed it in a safe and secret place for a rainy day. She had not told Roberto, her husband or any of her other men friends about it. It was her nest egg for emergencies and it had now come into its own. She hoped fervently that it would lead her to a better life. A sprat to catch a mackerel, she thought and smiled. I’m over sixty now and have nothing much to show for my years of hard work in hot kitchens and typing pools or the useless men I’ve had the misfortune to shack up with. Now I’m going to collect my inheritance. Uncle James would approve of that if he was still alive, God rest his soul!
She purchased a few new clothes – she didn’t want to look like the poor relation she was – had her hair trimmed and dyed, and packed her few belongings into an old battered suitcase that had belonged to Roberto. It’s quite good quality, she thought, after giving it a much needed lick of cheap furniture polish. It doesn’t look too bad, she convinced herself in a desperate effort to boost her self-confidence. There are a few scratches and dents but I will look well travelled and will soon be in England. Her spirits lifted.
Chapter 7
The Return of the Evacuee 1995
Rejection by Janet and James Anderson was a bitter pill for the young Tom Hands to swallow but he was fortunate. He was fostered out with a solicitor and his wife, a charming and kind couple, who lived in a large rambling old house on the outskirts of Everton not many miles from Enderly. He attended Everton Grammar School for a short while then, after he had been formally adopted, a private school of his new parents’ choice in Russhampton so that he lost touch with any previous acquaintances from Enderly. His adoptive parents were a middle-class couple with inherited capital and were in a position to give Tom a comfortable and happy existence quite different from any he had known before. Tom took their surname of Barker and was known by his first name of Robert, or Robbie, to his new family and friends. Fulfilling his earlier promise, he won a scholarship to Oxford University.
‘He is a clever lad,’ his parents said, ‘we will be proud of him.’ And they were.
‘We were lucky when you came to live with us,’ they never tired of telling him. He thought he was the lucky one, although a corner of his heart would always remain with Alicia Merryweather.
Robbie matured into an attractive man and it would have been difficult for Janet to recognise him if she had passed him in the streets of Everton or Brinton. He did not look for her; he had no desire to meet the obnoxious James who had rejected him, something he found difficult to accept as well as what he considered was betrayal by Janet, try as he might to understand her point of view. As he was growing up he did wonder if Janet ever looked for him. He hoped she did but doubted if he would ever find out. He owed some loyalty to his adoptive parents. They were kind and gave him affection when he needed it and he swore that he would not set foot in Enderly whilst they were alive.
His adoptive parents died within a short time of each other when he was only forty years old but left him their large old house on the outskirts of Everton and a reasonable amount of capital. He was the son they had always wanted and he had brought joy and pleasure into their lives, something that they had not thought possible after they had lost their only son as a baby and discovered that they could not have any more children of their own.
Robbie married a girl he met at college but they divorced after a few unhappy years, after which he decided to remain single. When he retired at the age of sixty he considered visiting Enderly once again to see Alicia’s daughter Janet, if she was still alive, though he had no desire to see James. He knew Alicia and Will were dead, he had read about their funerals in a local paper shortly after he had been adopted. He had not forgotten his childish vow to repay their kindness one day but how he might do that he had no idea. He had no family and only a handful of friends in Oxford so that there was no reason for him to stay there. In any case he was now interested in going back to see Enderly and the surrounding area again. It had been a haven when he was only five years old and perhaps it would be again in retirement. He did not think any old school acquaintances, if there were still any about, would recognize him after so long –at least he hoped not.
Robbie looked forward to visiting a few old haunts near Enderly and Everton, the area he had loved when he was young, and thought longingly of the vista provided by the vast orchards filled with plum, apple and pear trees whose gorgeous blossom attracted many visitors in the spring. The Vale of Everton boasted a mild climate, indeed it was sheltered compared to many areas in the country. He remembered too the vast fields of cabbages and spring onions that were grown just outside Enderly. The smell of rotting cabbages had filled his nostrils in an unpleasant way when he was a child but the industry had provided employment for many of the local boys and a number of gypsies who visited the area in the growing season to look for temporary work.
Robbie had no idea that Janet had searched for him after James had left, and although he harboured a vestige of affection for her he did not quite forgive her for abandoning him. Time, despite his fondness for his generous adoptive parents, had not yet healed the wounds inflicted on him by the odious James.
When Robbie returned to Enderly Janet was seventy-seven years old. Although he had been reluctant to set foot in Enderly after James had rejected him he now looked round the village with surprising and unexpected interest. He parked his new silver car at the edge of a small triangle of grass that served as a mini village green and set out on foot to explore. Excitement caught up with him. He felt he had come home again, a feeling that strengthened as he wandered down the main village street flanked with old cottages, the pub, shop and the old church at the end next to the village school. A sprawling housing estate built just after the war near the school appeared vast and dilapidated. Paint was peeling from windows, front gardens were neglected and littered with broken toys, but otherwise things seemed very much like he remembered. Memories flooded back. The old grey stone church, the row of cottages, at one time occupied by agricultural workers when local landowners farmed most of the land around Enderly, and Honeysuckle Cottage where he had stayed with Alicia Merryweather and her ailing husband for five years looked much as he remembered them. Pink, red and yellow roses clambered over the doors as they had done when he was a child White and purple wisteria drooped from walls and the gardens were bursting with cottage-garden flowers. The scent of the flowers filled the air. Some of the large old trees, including the pretty white lilac that he remembered once had pride of place in the Merryweathers’ front garden, had been chopped down. A few of the window frames had been renewed together with the once dilapidated thatch. There was still one honeysuckle straggling over a metal arch that spanned a small brick path at the side of the cottage but most of the plants that had given the cottage its name had disappeared, at least he couldn’t see any from the front gate.
The well was still in the front garden but was now home to baskets of flowers that had been placed below the small tiled roof. There was a pump attached underneat
h the roof and a yellow hose on a hook so Robbie guessed that the well water was only used for watering the garden. The houses now had piped water and no doubt modern bathrooms. A small car stood on the sparse grassed verge in front of the cottage, a testament to progress.
He stopped to speak to a bent and wizened old man who was working in the garden.
‘I lived here near here for a while as a child,’ he said, after a slight hesitation, as the old man continued to prune bright yellow roses near the gate. The man sighed and did not turn round immediately. He rubbed his right ear with a gnarled and dirty hand as if he needed time to consider before he replied. The silence was heavy. Robbie was anxious not to give too much away. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ he continued with caution, ‘but ... er ... could you tell me what happened to the Merryweather family? I believe they once lived in this cottage.’
The old man turned towards Robbie and leaned on the gate. He tipped his old brown cap back on his head and his deep-set blue eyes lit up with a vestige of a smile. His face was wrinkled and weatherbeaten from many hours spent in the sun and wind. However, he appeared almost pleased to talk to the stranger, which was a relief.
‘Dead long ago,’ he said slowly in his broad Russetshire accent and clipped tones. ‘Janet, their daughter, is still around though and living in Primrose House. She was a teacher for a long time. I can’t tell you much more.’
He turned away from Robbie and continued with his pruning. He had done his bit.
Robbie thanked him and the old man grunted and cleared his throat.
Well, he had found out something useful, Janet was still alive and living in the village, but would have to try elsewhere for more information.
The vast fields of cabbages and the unpleasant smell of rotting leaves wafting in the breeze round the edge of the village had disappeared. That was an improvement he thought. There were still some plum and apple orchards, their short stubby stumps and branches promising good crops. Enderly now looked like many other Russetshire villages. Some executive-style houses had been built by a large well-known firm – he had seen some similar in style in Oxford – and some retirement bungalows, small and box like, had mushroomed a short distance from the housing estate. Several new prefabricated classrooms had been erected in the old Victorian school’s playground. Newcomers had renovated cottages, many just for holidays, and smart expensive cars, Porsches, BMWs and four-by-fours of various makes, were parked outside on verges: the age of the commuter had invaded this once sleepy and quiet village. The community had it seemed expanded but there were, he estimated, still only about 200 dwellings.
The black and white village shop no longer had a thatched roof but one of grey slate that fitted in reasonably well with the village scene, but otherwise was much the same as he remembered it. The well-trodden step and green painted door, at odds with the rest of the building, were still the same. If anything the green paint was brighter than the one he could remember seeing as a child. There was not much room inside and the layout was much as it had been when he was an evacuee. A Post Office counter, small and cramped, had been fitted into one corner, but the shop shelves were well stocked with essentials for the villagers who needed the odd item they had forgotten when they did their weekly shop in the local supermarkets. As well as the usual groceries like biscuits, jam, milk and bread there was a rack full of greetings cards, postcards and an assortment of envelopes and writing paper. Local eggs, ham and cakes were on display together with a few vegetables and some fruit. There was a small freezer with some ready meals and cartons of ice creams. The elderly couple running the shop seemed pleased when Robbie went in to buy a local newspaper. The woman, whose thick white hair was sprayed with so much lacquer that it stood up in a stiff quiff several inches above her head, chatted voraciously in an attempt to find out about the newcomer who she hoped was not just another visitor but a potential regular customer. Astute grey eyes fixed themselves on Robbie who was in his turn having difficulty in making an effort not to stare at her almost beehive hairstyle that contrasted incongruously with her small wrinkled face.
‘Er, four ounces of those sweets please,’ he said pointing to a jar on the shelf behind her.
‘Just visiting are you?’ she asked, tipping mint humbugs into a bag and weighing them in ounces, as their predecessors had done for several generations. To Robbie’s amazement, several large jars filled with old-fashioned sweets similar to those he remembered seeing as a child stood on a shelf behind the counter.
‘Well ... sort of. Re-visiting you could say.’ ‘Oh, been here before then?’ ‘Yes.’ It was cool in the shop and he was grateful for the respite. Robbie rummaged in his pockets for some change to pay for the mints and his newspaper and turned away from her penetrating gaze, stepping out of the door with haste into the scorching midday sun. He mopped the perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief and strolled down the road to the local pub, the Green Man, where he hoped to obtain a decent lunch. The pub had a well-cared-for look and seemed promising. The landlord was young with a mop of red hair, tall and muscular with a wide chest and shoulders, almost as broad as those possessed by a town club bouncer that Robbie once knew, and he greeted Robbie warmly as he walked through the open door. A smell of beer and midday cooking reached his nostrils and he felt pangs of hunger. The area near the bar was dim, old slate floors and horse brasses provided atmosphere and there were some good oak trestle tables covered with check cloths, a welcome sight. His stomach rumbled; he had not realised how thirsty and hungry he had become.
‘What can I do for you sir?’ the landlord called in an accent that sounded Cornish and reminded Tom of a bull bellowing for his favourite heifer.
‘Pint of best bitter, please and some lunch.’ He walked towards the bar. ‘Can I have a menu?’
‘Of course,’ the landlord answered in a deep resonant voice and passed a bar menu to Tom. ‘There’s a nice table for one there by the window, make yourself comfortable and Mary here will bring your drink over.’
Mary was a luscious-looking barmaid; her short skirt revealed long legs and a skimpy T-shirt exposed a generous portion of a large low-slung bosom. Robbie made a determined effort to keep his eyes on the menu.
A few of the locals glanced at Robbie under lowered lashes as they sipped their pints and toyed with ham, eggs and chips, obviously the favourite meal of the day. A stocky lad in white overalls ventured to ask if Robbie was just visiting.
‘Well, yes, I am. I used to live near here years ago.’
The lad held out his hand. ‘Welcome, then. I was born here and my mum and grandma were too. My grandma was a post-war baby. When were you here?’
‘Oh, in the nineteen fifties or thereabouts.’ ‘Gosh, yes,’ the boy said. ‘There’s a picture of some of the evacuees in the other bar, you should have a look. You might recognize some of them. They were here just before your time I should imagine but a few stayed on in the village, mums and dads killed and no one else to look after them, that sort of thing you know. There are one or two more photos in the roof, I believe, but the landlord is not very interested in them which is a pity.’
Tom, or Robbie as he was now called, remembered that picture well; it was taken in front of the village hall before he was rescued by Alicia Merryweather. He had stood in the centre of the front row, a small and miserable figure. When he looked at it later he found that it had faded, and was so brown and misty that it was difficult to recognise anybody. That was a relief. He wondered what happened to the other evacuees who had stayed in the village. He hoped they would not recognize him if they were still around and doubted that they would. He had lost his cockney accent, grown a beard which covered the deep dimple in his chin and had developed a portly figure during the last few years.
‘Do you know a Mrs Janet Anderson?’ he asked, a cautious tone surfacing in his voice.
‘I can’t say I do,’ the lad replied, ‘but old Pat over there might,’ he pointed to a man of about seventy sitt
ing on his own at a corner table, ‘best ask him – he knows most folks around here.’
‘Thanks, I’ll do that,’ Robbie replied gratefully. Robbie looked with interest at Pat. He did not remember him but he probably had been around when he was a child. He was a thin bony old man with a large bulbous nose and a dark mole on his chin. His old tweedy trousers were tied with string a short way above the ankles in the manner that many old countrymen who worked on the land did earlier. He had been working on his allotment and did not want to dirty his turn-ups. Pat gave him a brief nod and managed an apology for a smile, displaying uneven and yellowing teeth.
‘I knows her,’ he volunteered, his slightly high-pitched voice emerging clearly from the corner of the room. ‘She used to teach in this here village. She’s now Mrs Janet Lacey. James Anderson, her first husband, disappeared years ago, rotten devil he was.’
Robbie agreed with that. A slight frown appeared on his forehead but he said nothing.
‘She married the headmaster of the junior school, dead now poor fellow, but nice chap. She still lives in Primrose House. Are you a friend?’
‘Well, not really, I knew some of her family many years ago,’ Robbie said, wondering if he had given too much away.
‘She’s not well now,’ Pat continued. ‘I used to help her in the garden but my knee is playing up too much these days, I had to give it up. Don’t want a job do yer?’
Robbie smiled. ‘Not really.’ ‘No, you’s too much of a toff,’ Pat said in a resigned tone as he noted Robbie’s distinct upper-class Oxford accent. ‘She could do with some help, lovely lady. Her second husband died a long time ago now. The advert is in the local shop.’
Robbie considered his remarks. Husband dead. Hmmm … interesting. Robbie loved gardening and was an excellent handyman. He had enjoyed doing jobs round his house in Oxford and woodwork had been a hobby he had indulged in over the years as a relaxation from his academic career. The money was not important but it might be interesting to take a job as a handyman and gardener for a while so that he could get to know Janet once again incognito. She would not recognise him now, at least he hoped not. He was no longer skinny as he had been as a child and his once thick thatch of brown hair was almost white with a receding hairline. The skin around his deep-set hazel eyes had crinkled and his thick pebbled glasses would not make it easy for anyone to compare his eyes with those of young Tom Hands.