A Girl Called Hope

  ‘So far as I know everything’s fine. I offered to come with the van in case you had a lot to carry.’ He looked at the two small cases and asked, ‘Is this all of your luggage?’

  ‘I’m still glad to see you,’ she said.

  ‘Oh? Because it’s me or for a lift in the van?’

  ‘The van of course.’

  The report of her travels and a brief update on all that had happened since she’d left filled the short journey to Badgers Brook, where Hope was waiting, with a table set for a meal and Davy impatient to show her his train set and offer a drawing he’d made for her.

  Before she had removed her coat, Davy was on her lap, and she balanced a cup of tea in one hand while the other smoothed out Davy’s drawing as she praised it.

  ‘Anybody home?’ Kitty called as she came through the kitchen, and Connie smiled and said, ‘This is the best homecoming ever.’

  Geoff didn’t stay; he had to get back to the shop where he’d left the young boy in charge. ‘I’ll call tomorrow to see if there’s anything you need.’ he called as he closed the door behind him.

  ‘Such a kind man.’ Connie said. She looked at Hope and then Kitty. ‘He told me what’s been going on, with your parents-in-law making it difficult for you. I’ll help all I can.’

  ‘It’s customers I lack,’ Hope replied sadly. ‘With half the village believing I was having an affair with Peter while Ralph was alive, and the rest too scared of Marjorie’s tongue to declare their disagreement, no one will offer me work.’

  ‘Somehow we’ll have to make her retract – publicly.’

  ‘What we need is a bit of gossip about Marjorie herself, and I can’t imagine her doing anything risqué, can you?’ Hope forced a laugh, ‘This teapot needs replenishing,’ and she disappeared into the kitchen.

  Connie’s first priority was work. She went to look at the advertisements in Stella’s shop window, and then to talk to Betty.

  ‘I just told them I wanted a job and asked them to let me know if they hear of anything. The trouble is, I have no qualifications and little experience,’ she told Hope. ‘But don’t worry, I have the money for four weeks’ rent so I won’t be a burden.’

  ‘I wasn’t worrying,’ Hope told her. ‘Welcome you are, by me and by Davy. And even more by Geoff, I suspect!’

  *

  Marjorie spent several evenings cleaning up after the builders and making lists of what they needed to be told the following morning. The new windows were in place and she had polished them to perfection. The door surround had been replaced with one from a yard selling items rescued from bombed buildings. It had once graced the entrance to offices of a shipping firm and was extensively carved and moulded. Although it was ridiculously unsuitable for what was only a garden shed, once it was painted a sombre shade of green she thought Phillip would be impressed with its grandeur.

  Within the elegant surround, a stable door was fitted, the top and bottom opening separately seemed a useful addition. Phillip could get extra air on sunny days and she could stand there sometimes, leaning on the lower half of the door, and watch while he worked.

  In a corner of the now painted room was a sink. Near it was a door leading to a toilet, ‘For those times when he’s so inspired he can’t break away from his work,’ she had explained to the architect.

  A brand new easel was set up, which she had bought from the wife of a man who hadn’t return from the war. She had also bought a few pots and jars filled with brushes and a dozen or so frames from the same source. Saddened by comparing stories of their losses, they swore to become friends, but Marjorie didn’t think they had much in common. Richard would have been something important, like a barrister or Member of Parliament, Ralph had been an accountant and Phillip was a highly regarded artist. The woman’s husband had been a bus driver. Artistically talented or not, driving public transport was not something she could contemplate discussing in any depth.

  When the final coat of paint had been applied and the floor given its scrub, and everything was in place, Marjorie called Freddy to have a look at it. ‘Perfect. It’s perfect, isn’t it?’ she asked, expecting fulsome praise for her achievements.

  He hesitated, glancing at her, wondering how much to say. ‘I hope he likes it, you can never tell with Phillip.’

  ‘Of course he’ll like it. In fact, we’ll go and find him now and bring him back to show him. I can’t wait another day.’

  They knew where Phillip was living, although Freddy didn’t know how he could afford the rent. Having finally been thrown out by Sally and Matthew, he had a room in the guest house of Elsie Clements, in a row of houses behind the post office. It was Elsie who opened the door.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Williamson-Murton. Phillip is in his room. You haven’t come with the money, have you? He did promise a week in advance.’

  Freddy glared at Marjorie but she pretended not to notice.

  Phillip appeared to be sketching a group of trees, something he had to hand in case he was in when his mother called. ‘Mummy, and Dad, what a surprise. Shall we go to the pub? I can’t get on to the paper what I’m seeing in my mind, I need a break.’

  ‘Your mother has something to show you. Get your coat.’ Freddy said peremptorily. ‘Come on, before it’s dark.’

  Phillip gestured to Marjorie and mouthed, ‘What’s up with him?’

  ‘Hurry. Phillip dear. I can’t wait to show you.’

  Being led around the back of the house, for a fleeting moment Phillip envisioned a car. Surely his father hadn’t agreed to him having a car? He’d been hinting for ages but had been given little hope. Then his excitement grew when Marjorie almost ran to the door of the shed and opened the new stable door. A motorbike. It had to be a motorbike! Not as good as a car, but welcome all the same.

  Marjorie put a hand inside and flicked on the bare bulb in the centre of the white-painted ceiling. She stared at him, waiting for the cry of excitement to fall from his lips. Freddy was watching his son too, but his expression was cynical and he hadn’t expected to see joy.

  Phillip’s spirits plummeted as he saw the fitted studio, and he wanted to run outside and scream his disappointment to the darkening sky.

  ‘Mummy, you’ve thought of everything,‘ he whispered, ‘How generous you are.’ He walked around, picking up the tools of a craft he didn’t want to practice, laughing as he opened the door to the flush lavatory. ‘Everything,’ he repeated.

  ‘Of course, you’ll have to live at home, leave that dismal room. You’ll need a place where you can relax after working.’

  They closed the door and Phillip pulled himself out of his blighted hope and said all the things Marjorie wanted to hear. She replied in delighted tones, utterly content with the way her surprise had been received. Freddy said nothing.

  Later that evening, Phillip went to the pub and asked about the man called Arthur. He offered to sell him the key to the shed-cum-studio and recommended it as a suitable place for squatters. ‘There’s even a flush lavatory,’ he told a delighted Arthur Gleaner. ‘My mother thought of everything, apart from the small detail of my not wanting it.’

  He was laughing as he walked home, imagining Marjorie’s face when she arrived home after her usual Saturday shopping trip to find Arthur and family happily ensconced in her dream. If she’d achieved nothing else, she had made sure that Arthur’s next plea to the housing officer would be considered with more interest.

  He couldn’t stay home. Perhaps he would go back to Connie, at least for a while. Once the squatters arrived he wouldn’t be quite so popular with dear Mummy. Pity, he’d have liked to stay and see her reaction.

  He counted his money. Having left the job in the gallery, considering it boring, there wasn’t very much. He wouldn’t be able to pay Elsie Clements for the few days he had stayed. He would make a run for it and shame would force his parents to settle what he owed.

  He would have enough, just, to get him back to Connie and buy her a ‘sorry’ present. He was confident he could
talk her round. She’d look after him and he might even manage to be a school caretaker again, at least for a while. As long as Connie didn’t talk about marriage.

  He saw Hope the following morning and mentioned going back to see Connie. He was alarmed to learn that she was in Cwm Derw, living in Badgers Brook. He went at once to talk to her, persuade her to give their love a second chance, but came away disappointed.

  It really was time he left. But where would he go? He began to feel afraid. He couldn’t go on depending on his youth, charm and good looks. He was getting older but certainly no wiser. He went to a café and sat, sipping weak, lukewarm tea, and allowed himself to wallow in self-pity.

  Thinking of some of the men with whom he had served he wondered why he hadn’t settled back into civvy life like them. He’d seen sudden death, but so had many others. He remembered an evening out to celebrate Jeff’s nineteenth birthday. They’d all been in such high spirits, Jeff, Bobbie Vincent, Patrick Murphy and himself, inseparable, promising never to lose touch. They had made such plans for when the war ended. Then on that day, while they were celebrating Jeff being nineteen, a sniper had killed them. All three. Only he had survived. Jeff Thomas had lived for two days, his face distorted with pain, and Phillip had watched as he died.

  Perhaps that was why he lived only for the short term, he mused. Commitment, children, that was the road taken by fools, people who didn’t understand how all their tomorrows could be snatched from them in a split second, at the speed of a bullet. But his tomorrows continued to come and they had to be filled, so what road was open to him? Where could he go from here?

  Nine

  During the night Marjorie was disturbed by sounds outside. She roused herself a little, reluctant to move, knowing how cold the bedroom was outside the warmth of the blankets and fleecy sheets. There was a shuffling movement and what she imagined to be stifled laughter. Sleepily, unwilling to force herself to complete wakefulness, she wondered vaguely what was happening. They were on the main road and even at this time of night people passed and voices were occasionally heard.

  She had a sudden wild thought that perhaps Phillip had come home and had brought a woman with him, but that was impossible. Phillip wouldn’t do such a thing. The disturbances faded and she relaxed back until the sounds had merged with her dreams.

  As dawn broke she woke again to a sound she couldn’t identify. Freddy snored gently beside her and above the repetitious hum she thought she could hear singing. The wireless couldn’t be on, surely? Besides, there wouldn’t be music at this hour. She reached for her dressing gown and, shivering in the icy chill of the early morning, went to the window.

  The noise had ceased and she made a step towards the bed, enticed by the thought of another hour of warmth, but it began again and this time she identified it as children singing. From the window she could see nothing; the frost had hardened into complicated designs, fern-like and utterly beautiful, decorating the glass and excluding vision. But at this moment she wasn’t aware of its loveliness: the intricate patterns simply reminded her of how low the temperature had fallen and how warm a return to bed would be.

  Braving the cold she opened the window and looked out.

  The sound was stronger but seemed to be coming not from the street, but from the back of the house. Definitely children singing, interspersed with a low masculine voice telling them to ‘hush, now’.

  ‘Oh Johnny, Oh, Johnny how you can love…’

  ‘Freddy, wake up! Some awful people are singing, waking the neighbours. I know it’s impossible but they seem to be in our garden. Freddy!’ Her voice became more agitated as he didn’t move. She prodded him until he shed the remnants of sleep and sat up staring blearily to where Marjorie now stood beside the open window. He reached for the light but she stopped him. In the gloom of the early dawn she held his hand away from the switch and hissed, ‘Don’t let them know we’re awake. They’re probably burglars.’ She began to dress using her dressing gown like a tent, unwilling to lose its warmth. ‘Well, go on, then. Go and tell them to go away. I’ll wait and run to call the police if they don’t do as you say.’

  ‘Come on where? If you think I’m going outside before a cup of tea and at least two more layers of clothes you’re mistaken. And shut that window.’ She shut off the sound of ‘Roll aht the barrel’ with a loud bang. Freddy continued to sing, ‘We’ll have a barrel of fun.’

  ‘Freddy. Really!’ She tiptoed into the back room and looked through the window, which, with no one sleeping there, was less affected by the delicate artwork of the frost. Lights danced around the doorway of the shed, which she now called the studio. There were several children waving torches and singing. ‘It ain’t gonna rain no more no more, it ain’t gonna rain no more.’

  ‘They’re Londoners,‘ Marjorie gasped. ‘not even local people.’

  Freddy laughed as he struggled into a jumper and trousers, then his dressing gown. ‘Of course they aren’t, Marjorie, it’s the way the song should be sung.’

  ‘They sound very common,‘ she retorted.

  He went outside and in the light coming from the shed saw that it was full of people. At first he couldn’t guess how many as they were all dancing around. When they saw him coming, they squealed and darted back inside, slamming the bottom of the stable door with a bang. A head peered over the top, taller than the rest, and a man’s voice said, ‘We aren’t moving, we’ve taken over this wasted space until the council gives us a proper home, like we were promised.’

  ‘Are you squatters?’ Freddy asked, bemused.

  ‘Yes, we are! And there’s nothing you can say will make us leave. Not until we’ve got the home we were promised. Fought in the war I did, and three years on I still haven’t a decent home for my family.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Switching on the kitchen light. Freddy filled the kettle, and while it was heating he stepped outside and called, ‘Cocoa for the children all right?’

  ‘Thanks.’ came grudgingly.

  ‘Thanks, mister,’ came from the giggling choristers. There were more squeals and laughter and they disappeared from sight and closed the top half of the door. It opened again almost immediately and one of them called, ‘Morning, mister. Mam and Dad say we mustn’t talk to you, but have you got any biscuits?’

  Marjorie stood, hands on hips, outraged that Freddy hadn’t chased them away. Chuckling, and ignoring Marjorie’s protests, he delivered a bag into which he’d put the biscuits from the coronation souvenir tin.

  ‘That James Fielding has something to answer for,’ Marjorie muttered, ‘encouraging riff-raff to invade people’s private property.’

  While Marjorie threatened, cajoled and threatened again, the singing continued periodically, and voices were heard talking and laughing. Some homemade paper chains, presumably Christmas trimmings, appeared around the window, and, when the door was briefly opened, more could be seen draped across the room. Whenever either Freddy or Marjorie went out, the stable door was slammed shut amid screams. It seemed as though Arthur and Catherine Gleaner and their brood were enjoying their squatters rights in Marjorie’s shed-cum-studio, and were planning to celebrate Christmas there.

  While Marjorie stormed off to do battle with the council’s housing department, Freddy talked to their uninvited guests through the partially opened top half of the door. He learned that they had been living with Catherine Gleaner’s mother and were finding it hard to keep their lively children as quiet as her mother demanded, and sharing kitchen and living space for so much of each day was leading to tension and quarrels between Arthur and his mother-in-law.

  ‘Where did you get a key?’ Freddy asked.

  Arthur shook his head. ‘Not telling you that. I don’t want to get him in trouble,’ he said. It was enough for Freddy to guess.

  Freddy wondered whether he dare defy Marjorie’s wishes and give his word not to exclude them if they took the children out for a little while. Confined to what was in reality only a s
mall shed was going to be hard on them.

  ‘I won’t interfere with your arrangements, Mr Gleaner, but if you need to go out I’ll see if I can find the spare key for you. If you have them both no one will be able to get in without your permission.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Murton.' Arthur said, offering a hand through the part-open door. ‘You are a gent. Perhaps this afternoon we could leave a couple of the older ones and do some shopping.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll take Marjorie out if she doesn’t agree. What the eye doesn’t see, eh?’ He went back into the kitchen and washed the cups, wondering what Marjorie was doing and how their son might be involved. He had said nothing to Marjorie, but there was no one who had access to the keys but Phillip.

  In a room in Elsie Clements’s house behind the post office, Phillip – who had been unable to resist waiting to see the fun – woke, remembered and smiled.

  *

  News of the squatters spread and many laughed; others hurried home to make sure they weren’t vulnerable to the same fate. It was Betty Connors who told Hope, who hurried around to her parents-in-law to help. The normally quiet house was in chaos. Police were there, and council officials, mostly carrying clipboards and notebooks into which they were scribbling profusely.

  Brenda Morris, the district nurse, was there to ensure that the children weren’t in any danger. Many local people had come simply to see the fun, and, amid it all, the Gleaner family stayed behind the locked door of the studio and sang and laughed and shouted defiance to all.

  There was no possibility of them going shopping as they had planned with all this attention, and, in a quiet moment, Freddy asked what they needed and promised to do what he could and deliver it later that day. He wasn’t sure why, but he was enjoying this as much as Arthur’s children obviously were.

  Hope found Marjorie in the living room, Freddy beside her. She was sobbing. ‘A laughing stock, that’s what we’ve become. How did they get a key? How did they know when we were out and they’d have time to carry in all their furniture?’