Always I'Ll Remember

by Bradshaw, Rita

  Clara nodded. She felt frightened. She wasn’t sure if it was more the fear that another bomb would fall, or that after what had happened to Farmer Tollett, Abby might not think it was safe to keep her here any more. She didn’t want to go back to her mam. As Abby put an arm round her and gave her a hug before she and Rowena left to sort and bag a recent crop of potatoes, she wanted to cling tightly to her sister and not let go. Instead she watched the two women disappear, her small white teeth worrying the quick of one finger.

  She would run away if Abby sent her back to Sunderland, she would. She wished her aunty hadn’t written to say that there had been no more bombs dropped on the town since May and that they reckoned they’d seen the last of the air raids in the north-east. She’d rather face a hundred bombs here with Abby than go back.

  By the time a platoon of Americans arrived, together with the local constable and parson from the village, Clara had worked herself up into a silent state of terror, convinced she was going to be despatched home forthwith. She watched the captain talk to Abby in the yard for a while after he had given Gladys some little blue pills, but immediately his Jeep pulled away her sister disappeared to help Rowena again and the chance to talk to her alone was lost.

  The rest of the GIs left just as it was getting dark after seeing to everything. They even took Farmer Tollett to the undertakers after the parson had had a little talk with Gladys, telling her it was the best thing in the circumstances. The soldiers had stacked the remains of the barn in a pile in the corner of the field, repaired the stone wall as best they could and buried the cattle in a massive pit which they’d then filled in.

  They’d been marvellous, Gladys kept repeating throughout the long afternoon and evening, tears rolling down her face as she went about her household duties and fussed round Winnie and the baby. Just marvellous. And they’d even said they’d come and help with the harvest when they were off duty, bless them.

  Abby and Rowena only came into the house when it was too dark to see any more, and after they had eaten the meal Gladys had kept hot for them they sat in a stupor, too exhausted to get ready for bed. It was only when Gladys nearly fell off her chair that they realised she had already taken the little blue pill with her cocoa. They took her up to bed and helped her to undress. She was fast asleep when they left her. Winnie and the baby were sleeping soundly too when they checked on mother and child, but Clara was sitting bolt upright in her pallet bed, her staring eyes and white face giving Abby something of a shock.

  ‘I thought you were asleep.’ Abby spoke in a whisper as she walked over to her sister. ‘Come on now, snuggle down and close your eyes, hinny.’

  ‘I . . . I can’t sleep.’ Clara started crying again. ‘I told Mrs Gladys that but she still sent me to bed.’

  Abby glanced over at Rowena who was standing in the doorway of the bedroom looking towards them. Rowena motioned with her hands to say she was going downstairs to have a wash, and Abby nodded. When she had gone and there was only the sleeping Winnie and the baby in her crib, Abby whispered, ‘I know it’s terrible about Farmer Tollett but try not to be too frightened. It wasn’t as if the bomb was actually meant for the farm, you do understand that? It was an accident in a way. Look, your aunty reckons it’s gone very quiet at home. Would you like to go and see Jed for a while?’

  It was what Clara had dreaded. Her mind was still in turmoil from the events of the day and from the fear which had gripped her to the point where she had been sick twice in the privy, and she spoke with a touch of hysteria. ‘Don’t send me back, Abby, not to Mam. You don’t know what she’s like. She—’ She stopped as the sobs she was trying to stifle threatened to choke her.

  ‘Course I know what she’s like, dear,’ Abby said after a second of hesitation when an alarm bell somewhere in her head began to ring. Was there something Clara wasn’t telling her? Had their mam done something to her she hadn’t let on about?

  ‘No, you don’t, you don’t.’ Clara clutched hold of her, burying her face in Abby’s shoulder. ‘She knows I saw, and she said if I ever told anybody . . .’

  Abby sat very still. What on earth was all this about? Whatever it was had happened before Clara came to the farm.

  ‘What did you see, hinny?’ she said very softly, taking the child’s shoulders and moving her back so she could look into her face. ‘Whatever it was, you can tell me and I promise you won’t get wrong from Mam, all right? I promise.’

  ‘You can’t.’ Clara buried into Abby again, holding on to her with a vice-like grip. ‘She’ll have me put away, she said so.’ And then, after a great intake of breath, the words came tumbling out. ‘She said no one would believe me if I said she pushed Da, that they would say I was wicked and making it up. But she did push him, I saw her. I did, Abby. I did.’

  Oh no, no. Not that. No! Not even her mother . . . Abby’s lower jaw began to tremble and it transferred itself to her voice. ‘You’re sure? You’re absolutely sure?’ She didn’t try to persuade the child she was wrong because suddenly lots of things made sense. Clara’s grief and terror when their father had died, the bed-wetting, the little girl’s fear of being left alone with their mother. She had put it all down to the shock of their da dying, but it had been more than that. Much more. Abby felt limp and the room began to swim, and it was only with a great effort that she forced the faintness away and took a grip on herself. ‘Clara?’ Her sister hadn’t answered and now she gave the child a gentle shake. ‘You definitely saw it? You couldn’t have been mistaken?’

  ‘She . . . she said I dreamed it, that I’d had a nightmare but I didn’t. I was on the landing and she pushed him right down the stairs. They’d been arguing and it woke me up and I was going to go downstairs for a drink of water . . .’

  ‘All right, all right.’ As Clara’s voice rose and Winnie stirred and then murmured something, Abby’s arms tightened round her sister. ‘I believe you, hinny, but be quiet now.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t want to go back.’

  ‘You’re not going back. You’re never going back.’

  ‘Not ever?’

  ‘Not to live with Mam, no. You’ll be with me always, wherever I go.’

  The relief took the last shred of Clara’s control and had her sobbing noisily and without restraint. Abby heard Winnie stir again, and when her friend sat up in bed and said softly, ‘Is she all right, lass?’ Abby shook her head but didn’t elaborate. After a while Clara began to sniff and snuffle. Abby gave her the handkerchief from her dungaree pocket and her sister wiped her face and blew her nose, then allowed Abby to tuck her back into bed.

  ‘Go to sleep now,’ Abby whispered softly, ‘and try not to think about all this. You did right to tell me and I’ll deal with it, all right?’

  ‘Don’t tell Mam I told you.’

  ‘You don’t have to see Mam again if you don’t want to so it doesn’t matter if she knows or not.’

  ‘I don’t want to see her.’ It was unequivocal.

  ‘There you are then, you’ve nothing to worry about. Now with the baby and all, you’re going to have to work even harder round the farm so you must go to sleep now. Mrs Gladys is going to need lots of help from us because she’ll be very upset for a little while.’ Abby was aware she was saying all the right things but it was as if someone else was speaking; a different part of her mind was screaming denunciations against her mother as her spirit called out to her father afresh. Da, oh Da. My lovely da. How could she? How could she?

  Once Clara had turned on her side and put her thumb in her mouth - a habit which had proved unbreakable - Abby picked up the oil lamp she’d placed on the floor and walked across to Winnie’s bed. Her friend was feeding the baby, and when Winnie looked up at her and said, ‘I thought she’d take it hard, about Farmer Tollett. He made a fuss of her, didn’t he?’ Abby merely nodded. ‘It’s better she lets it all out now than keeping it in,’ Winnie continued, echoing the captain’s earlier sentiments. ‘By, what a day, lass, eh?’

  ‘A day and a h
alf.’ She had to force herself to speak. The sight of Winnie doing what was so natural was extra poignant after the conversation with Clara. Why couldn’t her mother have loved her father and the rest of them like women the world over?

  ‘Gladys said the GIs are coming to help with the harvest in their off-duty time so that’ll perhaps tide us over till we can get some prisoners of war,’ Winnie chuntered on contentedly, her hand stroking Joy’s tiny downy head. ‘All things considered, it could’ve been a lot worse, couldn’t it?’

  No, it could not. Nothing could be worse than this day.

  Abby nodded again.

  ‘Look, you’re all in, lass.’ Winnie mistook Abby’s silence for exhaustion. ‘Go and have your wash or whatever, and get to bed. I’ll try and make sure she doesn’t wake any of you before you’ve got to get up,’ she added, with another doting glance at the baby.

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’ There were far worse things than being woken in the night by the sound of new life crying. Abby traced the infant’s minute cheek with one finger and said, ‘She’s the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen, lass. Bonny as a summer’s day.’

  Winnie was still grinning her pleasure at the compliment as Abby left the room.

  On the landing, Abby paused before going downstairs to the scullery. What was she going to do? There was no question but that she had to face her mother with this, but with all hands needed so desperately here she couldn’t go yet. And to think how her mother had been at Christmas when she’d got home; settling herself in her front room every night as contented as a pig in muck, and all the time she’d had a man’s death on her conscience. But that was the thing, her mam didn’t have a conscience. Abby shivered although the night was not cold. And then she slowly began to walk downstairs, her shoulders bowed as if the weight of the world was on them. Which was how she felt.

  Chapter Sixteen

  If it hadn’t been for Abby’s new knowledge of the real circumstances surrounding her father’s death, the next couple of months wouldn’t have been as hard as she’d initially expected them to be.

  Poor Gladys was in tears much of the time at first but over the ensuing weeks she became almost philosophical about the loss of her husband, which enabled her to get on with life even in the midst of her grief. The weather wasn’t inclined to do them any favours, the rain which had proved such a problem throughout August continuing to fall with monotonous regularity in September and the first week of October. Nevertheless, with help from the off-duty GIs and then the hard work of three Italian prisoners of war, the production of wheat, barley and potatoes was good.

  Farmers were being exhorted, as they had been the previous year, to ‘take the plough around the farm’ to find new land that could be taken into cultivation, while worn-out arable land was put to grazing. All this was now Abby’s responsibility because Gladys had declared she couldn’t cope with the mechanics of running the farm. Consequently Abby found herself in the scary position of manager as well as worker, and it took all of the learning and experience of the last three years to keep her head above water. But Farmer Tollett had taught her well, and much to her surprise Abby found she knew far more than she’d imagined.

  Stoic Winnie was up and working as hard as ever within two weeks of Joy’s birth, the infant secured in a harness attached to Winnie’s back. Joy was a supremely contented baby, adored by her doting mother, grandmother, Abby and Rowena, and not least by Clara who thought of the baby as a live Milly.

  It had been decided that the Italian prisoners of war would sleep in the loft of the hay barn, an arrangement the three men seemed perfectly happy with. The loft was warm and sweet-smelling, and the men joined the women in the kitchen for breakfast and their evening meal; lunch was eaten out in the fields. All three men were thoroughly nice and appeared grateful to be at Bleak Farm; one of them had his own farm back in Italy. The youngest, Mario, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, was single and spoke very good English. He acted as mediator in the first few somewhat awkward days after they’d arrived. They had no supervision apart from Abby: the authorities had decided all over the country that there was little prospect of escape from an island, and most prisoners became resigned to staying where they were for the duration of the war.

  Clara, having offloaded the burden of the secret she had carried for so long and thrilled with Winnie’s baby, was coping with the farmer’s death very well. She had taken it upon herself to stick like glue to Gladys to make sure the older woman didn’t brood unduly, and there was no doubt the two of them had a special relationship. They were like granddaughter and grandmother and that this was proving to be a great comfort to Gladys in her hour of need was obvious to everyone.

  There had been one or two times lately when Abby had thought she might be able to steal a couple of days away and dash up to Sunderland to confront her mother, but on each occasion some minor emergency or other had prevented her. But she was determined to go as soon as ever she could.

  And so the month of October came to a close. One piece of heartening news came from home: Wilbert wrote to say he was out of the war due to injuries sustained to his legs which, although not severe, were bad enough to invalid him out of the army for good. Knowing Wilbert was safe was wonderful, but only forty-eight hours later Rowena received a telegram from her father informing her that her brother, her only sibling, and her brother’s best friend had been killed in action.

  It was after this that the faint unease Abby had been experiencing for some time concerning Rowena and Mario’s relationship blossomed into real worry. The handsome young Italian and Rowena had struck up a friendship almost as soon as the prisoners of war had arrived at the farm, and the morning Rowena heard about her brother, Abby walked into one of the storage barns to find Mario holding a weeping Rowena in his arms.

  It could have been no more than a friend comforting a friend, but the tender emotion on Mario’s face as he gently stroked Rowena’s hair, and the way she nestled into his broad chest suggested otherwise, as did the way they sprang apart at her entrance. Rowena was clearly embarrassed but not Mario, who simply looked at her in silence, as if challenging her to say something. Rowena’s family were top-brass military folk and consorting with the enemy would bring fierce condemnation from that quarter alone; Abby couldn’t rid herself of the fear that Rowena was storing up a whole load of trouble.

  It was therefore more with the intention of getting Rowena away from Mario for the night that Abby agreed to accompany Rowena to the village barn dance on Guy Fawkes Day. Abby initially took it as a good sign that the suggestion had come from Rowena, although over the next day or so she had a sneaking suspicion that it might be something of a smokescreen. Nevertheless, with Rowena still terribly upset about her brother and her own mind preoccupied with the thought of the coming confrontation with her mother, Abby thought an evening out would be good for both of them.

  ‘The GIs are donating a whole heap of fireworks apparently, ’ Rowena enthused, ‘along with food and drink, so it should be a great evening. They offered to hold the dance at their base but a few of the diehard locals objected.’ She wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘Not that they’ll refuse the whisky and everything else. Why can’t people just accept other people for what they are, regardless of nationality?’

  Abby looked hard at her friend. Rowena had made a number of similar observations since Abby had caught her and Mario in the barn.

  On the Friday night when they were getting ready for the dance, Abby found herself thinking about Rowena’s comments. She’d just heated the stub of a candle end and rubbed it over the soles of their dance shoes to make the leather waterproof, and now she sat back on her heels, gazing into space. She hadn’t seen Ike since the week Farmer Tollett had died. He’d come back to help with the harvest with some of the other GIs and she had got the impression then that he’d sought her out. She had half expected him to drop by in the following weeks but he hadn’t appeared.

  According to Rowena, who had
a knack of ferreting out local gossip, one of the young married women in the village whose husband was overseas had been consorting with the Americans and was now visibly pregnant. This had caused outrage, to the point where the woman’s father-in-law had gone ranting and raving to the commanding officer at the camp, and now the woman was a social outcast and the stout fathers of the district were virtually locking up their daughters.

  This hadn’t dimmed the local women’s fascination with the smart and snazzy strangers in their midst one bit, according to Rowena, and the children worshipped the GIs who always seemed to have a Hershey Bar or a stick of gum to hand.

  Abby frowned to herself, gathered up the shoes and marched upstairs. She definitely didn’t intend to throw herself at any man, American or otherwise, and the fact that Ike hadn’t followed through on his initial interest didn’t bother her in the least.