by Molly Green
‘You’re a natural with children,’ she’d said to June. ‘And you don’t want to waste your nursery nurse training. But don’t forget to have a bit of fun sometimes. There’ll be plenty of time for sadness if this war carries on much longer.’ She’d looked June up and down, her eyes full of affection. ‘You’re very young still, and pretty as a picture, so don’t tie yourself down to one man … and that includes Howard Blessing.’
Howard Blessing. June had had a crush on him when they’d first begun dating, but the attraction had quickly petered out – on her side, at least.
‘Don’t forget, you were the one who introduced me to him,’ June said with a laugh.
‘That’s as maybe. But he was supposed to take you to the pictures and dancing, not ask you to marry him – at your age.’
‘He was only kidding,’ June said. ‘Anyway, I don’t love him and never did, so there’s nothing to worry about. I just want to concentrate on my new job, but if I ever settle down it will be for love … though I shan’t hold my breath.’
‘You’re also too young to be cynical,’ her aunt had said with feeling. ‘You’ll fall in love, no doubt about it, and when it happens it’s the best thing on earth.’
The conductor broke into her thoughts as he called out, ‘Next stop, Ferndale. That’s yours, hen,’ he said, walking towards her, smiling.
Hen? Was he referring to her? What a strange expression. She was sure she had a lot to learn coming all this way from London.
‘Oh, thank you.’ June scrambled to her feet, which was difficult in the confined space. The large lady struggled up to let her out and June moved towards the front of the bus. Someone had shoved her case into the luggage space, and as she tried to lift it out the bus jolted to a stop, pitching her forward.
‘Steady,’ the conductor said, holding her arm. He glanced at her curiously. ‘Where’re you off to, hen?’
‘Dr Barnardo’s home. Do you know it?’
‘Aye. It used to be Lord Bingham’s house. That’s where it got its name: Bingham Hall. It’s up the lane on the left, then left again. A good twenty minutes’ walk, I’d say, as it’s quite a climb.’ He threw her a cheeky grin. ‘But you’re young … you’ll probably do it in less than that.’ His eyes swept approvingly over her ankles before he asked, ‘Are you a teacher … or visiting one of the young’uns?’
‘I’m working there – matron’s assistant.’
‘You’ll be working for Mrs Pherson, then.’
June nodded, pleased that someone knew her new employer.
‘Well, good luck, hen, is all I’ve got to say. I think you’ll be needing it – and not just with the young’uns.’
She wondered what he meant by this, but there was no time to think. The conductor had already kindly set her case down outside and waved her goodbye.
June’s eyes stung in the bitter morning air as she watched the back of the bus disappear. She was the only passenger who had alighted. It was foggy now they were out of Liverpool and she wondered how far away the orphanage was from the nearest village. Wherever it was, and however far, there was no going back. It had started to drizzle and grey clouds had begun to pile up. Pulling her scarf more snugly around her neck, and pushing back strands of the honey-coloured hair that whipped from under her hat, she clutched the handle of her mother’s suitcase, somehow feeling close to her, and began the long trudge up the lane.
The house came into view almost brick by brick. The first things that struck her were the tall chimneys poking up into the heavy sky, smoke curling out of them. As she got nearer, the house looked even more impressive with its crenellated front, giving the air of a castle. Was this mansion really going to be her home? She thought of the little terraced cottage where she’d grown up – the small back yard – and pulled herself up sharply. She was being disloyal.
June wondered what had happened to Lord and Lady Bingham. Had the family fled when war was declared? How did the house come to be a children’s home? Had he lent it to them just for the duration of the war? But what did it matter how the house came to be a Dr Barnardo’s? Whatever had happened in the past, the house was providing orphaned children with a home. As she walked up the long drive the house took on such magnitude that she felt quite overwhelmed. Whatever must a child think, seeing a house like this for the first time?
At this moment she didn’t feel much more confident than a child, but she allowed herself a rueful smile as she craned her neck to look up at the dozens of windows peering down at her, imagining them slyly weighing her up as to whether she was welcome or not. There didn’t seem to be any sign of life.
She pulled the bell cord beside the massive oak door and waited. No sound at all. No scuffling of shoes. No running footsteps. Nothing. She pulled again, harder and longer. This time she heard a man’s voice shout something but she couldn’t make out the words.
The door swung back, groaning on its hinges, and a short figure of a man appeared, dressed in black from head to toe, back bent as though he’d worked in the fields all his life, grumbling and swearing under his breath.
‘I heard you the first time.’ His tone was irritable. ‘I’m not deaf, you know.’
‘I’m sorry,’ June said. What a rude man. She hoped she wouldn’t have much to do with him.
‘Are you the new assistant?’ He looked at her through dazed watery eyes.
‘Yes. I’m June Lavender.’
Was he ever going to ask her in?
He continued to stare at her. Did she have a smut on her nose or something? Her feet were beginning to freeze. She stepped forward into the doorway, forcing the little man back. ‘May I please come in?’
He gave a grunt. ‘You’d better come this way.’
June found herself in a magnificent hall. Her eye was immediately drawn towards the biggest fireplace she’d ever seen. It was built of stone, and rose twice as high as a man. A fire flared and snapped but from where she stood she couldn’t feel any heat; most of it was probably going straight up the chimney. Unlit candles in sconces were set in niches near the fireplace, and several chandeliers shaped like individual flares hung from the ceiling, which was painted with what appeared to be hundreds of coats of arms. In the middle of the flagstone floor was a huge oriental rug, rucked up at the side.
It was just as she imagined the great hall of a castle would look. This was a grand house indeed. She took a deep breath to still the nervous fluttering of her heart.
‘Is that Miss Lavender, Gilbert?’ A strident voice came from above and a woman poked her head over the curving oak staircase.
‘Yes, ma’am. She’s arrived.’
The figure made her way slowly down the stairs, holding on to the banister. She was an exceptionally tall, large-framed woman, her grey hair scraped into a tight bun on top of her head. She stopped short, and from behind a pair of rimless spectacles her piercing steel-grey eyes regarded June from top to toe.
‘You’re not very big.’
‘I’m five foot four.’ June drew herself up to her full height. ‘And I’m not a weakling.’
‘Mmm.’ The woman pursed her lips, her head cocked to one side. ‘We’ve nearly all boys here. They can be a rough lot.’ She glared at June. ‘You sounded much older in your letter but you don’t look more than sixteen.’
‘I’m twenty-one next summer,’ June said firmly. ‘And I’m used to unruly children. As I said in my letter, I’ve been looking after my sister’s three boys for the last two years and they’re quite a handful.’
‘Not such a handful as thirty-three little devils, not counting seven girls who never stop crying.’ June was about to answer when the woman said, ‘I’m Mrs Pherson, the matron. And that’s what you call me – Matron,’ she repeated, as though she had no doubt that she was dealing with a simpleton.
June offered her hand but the matron barely touched it with her fleshy fingers. ‘Take Miss Lavender’s case upstairs, Gilbert.’ Her eyes swept back to June. ‘There’ll be a cup of tea for you in th
e kitchen.’ She pointed to a corridor at the far end. ‘First right along the passage. I will meet you back here in’ – she pulled the chain of her watch towards her and glanced at the hands – ‘twenty minutes exactly. Please don’t keep me waiting.’
She certainly runs a tight ship, June thought tiredly, remembering the conductor’s words, which now made a lot more sense. For the moment, all she wanted to do was get to her room, drop her suitcase and find the kitchen. Her mouth was dry from the little she’d had to drink during the long journey from London, and the thought of a cup of tea was bliss.
‘Tea would be very welcome, thank you.’ June glanced at Gilbert who was standing nearby, a sullen expression spread across his small mean features. ‘I can carry my own case upstairs if you’ll just show me where to go.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Gilbert stomped up the stairs in his scuffed black boots with June following, heaving her case. Then another flight, and another. When they reached the fourth floor she thought she would drop with tiredness. Gilbert waved her towards a door and nodded.
‘That’s it, yon,’ he said, and, muttering to himself about having more work to do with extra staff, he vanished.
It wasn’t a good start, June thought. The first two people she’d met weren’t in the least welcoming, but then she was used to difficult people. She’d had plenty of training with her father and, although she’d loved her mother, she’d not been easy to look after when she’d been drinking. And her sister Stella was always known for her quick temper. June breathed out a long sigh. She would just have to do her best to get into Matron’s good books by showing her she could cope with thirty-three boys and seven girls. They couldn’t be that bad.
She opened the door and a smell of damp filled her nostrils. By the look of it, the bedroom hadn’t been occupied in months. Gingerly she stepped inside and shivered even though she still had her coat on. The room was big enough to warrant a fireplace, though there were no ashes, nor logs nearby for the next fire to be lit. An ugly brown wardrobe and mismatched chest of drawers had been pushed against one wall in a lopsided manner, and when June went to inspect a table under the window she pulled back in disgust. Unrecognisable flowers were festering in a glass vase with an inch of slimy green water. June wrinkled her nose as she unfastened the window, letting in a blast of air. It was freezing, but it couldn’t be helped, she thought. The room needed fresh air. She couldn’t see much of a view as it was still foggy so she’d have to be patient until it lifted.
How was she ever going to sleep in such an atmosphere? Or was she being too fussy after Aunt Ada’s neat-as-a-pin flat? Her own mother had done her best to be tidy and clean before she became sick but her father had never taken any notice, tramping in from the garden in his boots no matter how many times her mother asked him to remove them, and leaving his dirty clothes on the floor for her to pick up and wash.
June pushed the image of her father away. She’d give the room a good clean the first chance she had, but first, even before her tea, she decided to unpack.
She hung her few clothes in the wardrobe, which smelled of mothballs, set out her brush and comb and placed her bag on a cane-seated chair, though most of the cane poked underneath like a long fringe. There was no mirror to check if she looked tidy but she mustn’t complain. Plenty of people were much worse off. At least the house was quite a few miles from Liverpool, she reasoned, and the drive itself must be a half a mile long, so the children should be safe from any bombs.
Although June was getting more tired by the minute, her mouth curved into a delighted smile. There’d be wonderful gardens to walk in and where she would play games with the children. She’d soon make her room homely. It was just a matter of getting used to everything.
Chapter Two
Five minutes later a maid directed her to the kitchen where a pot of tea and some cups and saucers were grouped on a scrubbed pine table. Two young girls were scurrying round a plump woman in a wraparound apron and white cap who stood over an enamel bowl as big as a baby’s bath, hands flying up and down as she crumbled in fat and flour for her pastry. She looked up as June entered.
‘Are you the girl come to help with the children?’ she demanded, though her tone was friendly.
‘Yes. I’m June Lavender – just arrived from London.’
‘Och, you talk funny.’ The woman wiped her hands on her apron and stuck out a floury hand. ‘Name’s Marge Bertram. Call me Bertie. Everyone does. I’m from Scotland. Buried the second husband and decided to have a change and cross the border.’ She laughed. ‘It’s a couple of degrees warmer here, I’ll give it that. Little did I realise how close Jerry would be, trying to smash the docks to smithereens.’ She looked at June, who was waiting to be told to take a seat. ‘Still, you don’t want to hear all that right now. You must be worn out. Tea’s on the table. Help yourself, hen. You’ll have to excuse me getting on as I’m in the middle of cooking dinner.’
‘What time will that be?’ June asked, a little embarrassed but hearing her stomach rumble again. One piece of toast and a spoonful of scrambled egg at six this morning hadn’t gone very far to stave off her hunger.
Bertie looked up at the wall clock, which showed five minutes past eleven. ‘Not until one o’clock.’ Her eyes pierced June’s. ‘Here, I’ll cut you a slice of cake. Don’t tell anyone, mind. It’s supposed to be for the children’s teatime.’
‘I haven’t heard any sound from them,’ June ventured, pouring herself a cup of tea. ‘Are they out somewhere?’
Bertie snorted. ‘No, dear, not at this time of the morning. They’re all in class. These walls are solid. The Victorians really knew how to build. You’ll not hear a peep unless they’re in the next room or right on top of you. Except the wee bairn in the corner.’ She jerked her head to where a child sat silently watching on a three-legged stool in the unlit corner of the room.
June glanced where Bertie had gestured and saw a little girl with pale blonde hair tied up in plaits, and a face like an angel, sucking her fingers. How could she have not noticed her? And there was something familiar about the child. June looked closer and her heart suddenly gave a great lurch. She gasped. The little girl looked the spitting image of her sister Clara when she was that age.
‘Say hello to the nice new lady who’s come to look after you and the other children,’ Bertie said to the child, then turned her head to June and lowered her voice. ‘Poor wee lass doesn’t talk. She’s not said a word since she came here … that’d be a coupla months now. We all thought she was dumb at first. Now we know it’s a mental thing.’
Poor little girl. Whatever could have happened?
June half rose from her chair, but Bertie put a warning hand out. ‘Maybe not come too close at first … don’t want to frighten her any more than she is already.’
‘How old is she?’ June whispered.
‘Three and a half.’
Her eyes filling with tears at such a likeness to her sister, June managed to smile across at the child. ‘Hello, little one. Can you tell me your name?’
‘She won’t answer,’ Bertie cut in. ‘Her name’s Lizzie. But it doesn’t seem to mean anything to her. No reaction or nothing. I’ll explain later – when she’s taking a nap – how she ended up here.’
‘Hello, Lizzie,’ June said, still smiling. The child stared. Even from several feet away she could see that Lizzie’s eyes were dark, unlike Clara’s, which had been a grassy-green just like June’s own, but the child’s other features, the shape of her face – it brought back all the pain again. She felt herself tremble, her nerves on edge. Trying to calm herself she sipped her tea, her heartbeat slowing. She’d be all right. She’d be safe here. Mustn’t go to pieces or she’d be no help to the children. Bertie was right. It was best to keep a distance until Lizzie began to trust her. Something terrible must have happened that had shocked the child.
She finished her tea just as a nurse, a halo of dark curls escaping from her cap, put her head around the doo
r.
‘Oh, there you are. The Fierce One told me you’d arrived.’ She grinned and came into the room.
‘The Fierce One?’ June questioned.
‘Matron.’ The nurse laughed and Bertie joined in. ‘That’s what we all call her – Pherson, the Fierce One.’ She looked June up and down and stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Iris Marchant. And you are …?’
‘June Lavender.’ June took Iris’s warm hand in her own cold one.
‘Well, we should get on a treat,’ Nurse Marchant said, shrieking with laughter, ‘what with us being a couple of flowers.’
June laughed too. How wonderful that there was a young woman, not much older than herself, working at Dr Barnardo’s. She was sure they’d be friends. Iris poured herself a cup of tea and gulped it down in a few mouthfuls.
‘And months,’ June added, grinning. Nurse Marchant looked puzzled. ‘June and March … ant. And I was born in June – hence my name.’
‘Oh, I get it.’ The nurse chuckled. ‘By the way, I’m Iris when we’re off-duty – and you’ll be June. But definitely not in front of the Fierce One, whether we’re working or not.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ June said, glancing at the clock. ‘She sounds a stickler.’
‘She is.’ Iris nodded. ‘You need to keep on the right side of her, which is difficult, as it’s nigh impossible to tell what her right side is.’ She chuckled again.
‘You don’t sound like a northerner,’ June said.
‘Me?’ Iris pointed to herself. ‘Definitely not. I couldn’t live up here for good if you paid me. I’m from Kent. Not a good place to be in this bloody war.’ June flinched at the swear word. ‘Though it was quite thrilling seeing the Battle of Britain going on right above my head. My two young brothers went mad with excitement. Daft little buggers. They can’t wait to be old enough to join up.’