Edie's Home for Orphans

by Gracie Taylor

  ‘You shouldn’t feed it, you know,’ a young sailor who was lounging nearby observed, blowing a lazy smoke ring from his cigarette. ‘We’re hard pushed to feed people these days, let alone disease-ridden vermin like that. Better to starve ’em out.’

  Edie kept her face fixed, trying not to let her irritation show.

  ‘I can’t accept it’s ever wrong to help someone – or something – worse off than you are,’ she said. ‘That’s why we’re fighting, isn’t it?’

  ‘You have to think about the greater good, love. We all want to get through this thing alive if we can.’

  ‘Well, doesn’t that apply to animals other than human beings?’

  The man shrugged. ‘It’s a matter of being cruel to be kind, by my reckoning. My dad had our old lurcher put to sleep the week war broke out – best way, he said, spare her worse to come.’

  He wasn’t the only one. Edie knew of dozens of friends and neighbours who’d chosen to have their pets humanely killed rather than subject them to the unknown horrors that might be lying ahead. It had near broken her heart, seeing people trudging home clutching a bag containing the remains of the family’s much-loved dog or cat for burial in the back garden. Thank God, her own beloved Tessie – Aunt Caroline’s ancient Siamese – had accompanied her mistress to the safety of the Cotswolds.

  Edie wondered to whom the stray dog she’d fed had belonged. Had his owners evacuated and left him? Died in a raid? She’d never seen so many scavenging strays on the streets of London as she had since the nightly blitzes began six months ago.

  Poor, lost little souls. How awful it was to see animals suffer: that heartbreaking bewilderment in their eyes because they couldn’t understand where their world had suddenly disappeared to. She’d give them all a home if she could.

  The sailor watched Edie struggling with her heavy luggage for a moment before straightening up. ‘You need a hand with that?’

  ‘I can cope, thank you.’ She forced a smile. ‘I’m about to start work as a Land Girl, it won’t hurt me to build some brawn.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He stamped his cigarette out and walked off to find his carriage.

  Once Edie had loaded her luggage on to the overhead rack in her compartment, she claimed a seat and took out the papers telling her everything the local War Agricultural Committee felt she needed to know about her new home. Which apparently wasn’t a lot.

  She was headed for the village of Applefield in Cumberland, not far from Kirkton: the town where her father had been born, although she’d never been there herself. There she’d be billeted on a local estate, Applefield Manor, managed by a lone widow – Prudence Hewitt – and her staff.

  There was scant information about the estate itself; however, its grounds covered several acres and their upkeep had obviously been deemed vital to the war effort by somebody at the War Ag, so Edie guessed it must be rather grand. Her responsibilities were to assist the gardener there in the orchard and kitchen gardens for three days a week, and for the other two and a half she would be working at the romantic-sounding Larkstone Farm nearby.

  There was nothing about how many girls would be billeted at Applefield Manor along with her. Edie just hoped they wouldn’t be too stuck up. Susan and Alfie were good correspondents, but a letter wasn’t the same as a flesh-and-blood friend. There would be nothing worse than starting a new life among strangers who’d already made up their minds they didn’t want her there. And Northerners could be uncommonly close, couldn’t they? Suspicious of outsiders. Edie wasn’t quite an outsider – half the blood in her veins belonged to that part of the world – but she had a feeling that was unlikely to help her case a great deal.

  She sighed as she packed her papers away again. Edie didn’t question that the Land Army did valuable work, ensuring there was food enough to fill hungry bellies for the months, perhaps even years, it could take for the war to be settled one way or another. But on the training course she’d attended – learning how to load a threshing machine; the correct way to apply udder cream; how to plant a potato – the work had seemed so … ordinary. So small.

  Before her medical assessment, Edie had dreamed of joining the Wrens and applying for overseas posting. Saving lives, seeing the world, helping in a very real, tangible way to win this bloody war; it was everything she wanted. But then Dr Grant had delivered the bad news about her health, and … well, here she was on a train to the very back of the back of beyond, preparing to do her bit for the war effort not through helping to plan key naval operations but by trimming some old lady’s box hedges.

  She cast an envious look at the woman who had taken a seat opposite, her smart navy-blue jacket and peaked cap clearly marking her out as a Wren.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ the Wren said, smiling cheerily. ‘Rather a scorcher for the time of year. Far to go?’

  Edie nodded. ‘Cumberland. I’m taking up a posting there.’

  ‘Crumbs, as far as that! Which service?’

  ‘The Land Army.’

  ‘Oh, really? Well, good for you.’ Edie couldn’t help noticing the slight sneer on the woman’s lips. ‘Still, rather you than me, dearie. Terribly ugly uniform, isn’t it? Every little helps though.’

  Having discovered Edie was only a lowly Land Girl and not a member of the Forces, the woman’s attention drifted away and Edie was left alone with her thoughts for the rest of the journey up north.

  The journey to her new home was a feat in itself. The train from Euston ought to have taken Edie directly to Kirkton, but bomb damage to the line meant it was diverted to Oxford, where Edie transferred to the Wolverhampton train, and from there she went on to Crewe. There followed a cold night spent shivering on the platform while she waited for the train to Kirkton – as the Land Army were not a fighting force she was denied entry to the NAAFI tearoom there, which felt rather hard when she, too, was about to take up valuable war work. After an uncomfortable night Edie was tired enough to get a little sleep on the Kirkton train, and from there she caught the bus to Applefield.

  By the time she reached the stop where her directions instructed her she should alight, Edie had been travelling for the best part of two days in hot, dark, crowded vehicles and was utterly exhausted. Frequent stops for air raids and roadblocks, with hours spent shunted into sidings, and diversions due to damage on the railway lines had extended the journey significantly, and it was after nine o’clock at night when she finally stepped off the bus.

  The last leg of the journey was equally gruelling, although it was only a mile and a half. Edie was met at the bus stop in Applefield by the local coalman and driven in his rickety horse-drawn cart over dark, narrow roads to her new home of Applefield Manor. Her poor old bones felt like they’d been fed through the threshing machine she’d spent so many long, cold days learning to use during her four-week Land Army training course.

  In pitch darkness and with every cottage window blacked out, it was hard to properly get a feel for her surroundings as they drove. She could just make out the ominous shadows of the fells all around them, rising black against the star-flecked sky. The sky that felt so disconcertingly empty and quiet when in London the moan of sirens and the sinister bumblebee drone of the bombers had become such a part of everyday life. Here, the only sound was the occasional bleat of a sheep.

  Edie had expected to feel a certain freedom out in the countryside. That was what one was supposed to feel, wasn’t it? But in reality, the impassable giants all around her, the tightly packed little settlements, the narrow, frightening roads, all served to make her feel more hemmed in than she ever had in the city. Here, it seemed, was a place with no escape route. While Edie couldn’t deny she felt relieved – as well as a little guilty – at having broken free from the terror of the Blitz, homesickness began to gnaw. She fumbled for the little silver watch she always wore around her neck, pressing it with her fingers as they pushed on into the darkness.

  Applefield Manor, too, was shrouded in velvet darkness when they arrived, although Ed
ie could tell it was built on quite a scale. She wondered how many others were billeted there, and if she’d have a roommate.

  When the old man driving the cart had unloaded her suitcases and driven off, Edie pulled the bell rope that hung by the large front door, before immediately wondering if she ought to have looked for some sort of tradesman’s entrance.

  It was answered by a woman Edie assumed must be the housekeeper. She was dressed in a plain black frock and stiff white collar, her hair pulled back into a bun so severe it looked almost painful. The harsh hairstyle, stern expression and Quaker-like attire made her look older than she was, although Edie would have estimated her real age at no more than fifty.

  ‘Um. Good evening.’ Edie faltered in the face of the woman’s hard stare. ‘Edith Cartwright; Mrs Hewitt is expecting me. Could you tell her I’ve arrived, please?’

  ‘I can, very easily indeed.’ Edie thought she could detect the faintest flicker of amusement in the woman’s face. ‘Come in.’

  Edie blushed at her mistake. ‘I’m so sorry. You’re Mrs Hewitt?’ She’d been expecting somebody rather older, and, well, grander than the plain, bird-like woman before her.

  ‘I am the lady of the house, yes,’ Mrs Hewitt said in a clipped voice. ‘And perfectly capable of managing the household myself, despite what must seem to you my very advanced years.’

  It was a strange accent she had. Cautious and considered, each vowel carefully rounded, like the woman was unconsciously trying to cover up her native Cumberland tones. ‘Gives herself airs, that one,’ Edie could imagine her Aunt Caroline muttering with a disapproving sniff. But Edie sensed it stemmed more from a learned sense of shame, a fear of being somehow ‘found out’, than from any delusions of grandeur.

  ‘Well, you’ll be tired, I expect,’ Mrs Hewitt said in an offhand tone. ‘I’ll give you a quick tour, then my cook will provide you with a bite of supper before bed. Leave your luggage and gas mask in the hall for now.’

  Edie left her cases at the foot of the stairs and followed Mrs Hewitt as she made her way with purposeful strides down the oak-panelled hallway.

  ‘Are we far from Larkstone Farm here?’ Edie asked.

  ‘Not very far. Some two miles.’

  ‘Who is it run by? A family, or …’

  ‘Samuel Nicholson manages their flock of Herdwicks alone now, since his uncle passed on,’ Mrs Hewitt said. ‘I daresay he’ll be grateful for another pair of hands during lambing season. I’ve arranged with him that you won’t start work there until Thursday next, to give you a little time to settle in here. When you’re not working for him then you’ll be under orders from Mr Graham, my gardener.’ Mrs Hewitt gestured in the direction of what must be the gardens, although any view of them was blocked by the heavy blackout curtains covering all the windows. ‘We’re aiming to plant potatoes on some of our unused land, and there’s the greenhouses to tend to, the kitchen garden, and the apples from the orchard to get in if you’re still with us when the season comes around. Our gardens provide fruit and vegetables for the whole village, not merely ourselves. Jack – Mr Graham – will give you your itinerary tomorrow.’ She fixed Edie with a stern look. ‘And mind, Edith, the staff here are used to hard work. We’ve little time for shirkers in this part of the world.’

  Oh yes, all very well when you were the lady of the manor, eating grapes and fanning yourself while you watched the lower orders do the work. But Edie just smiled politely.

  ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’ve come prepared to get my hands dirty. Dig for victory and all that – stuff.’

  Edie had stopped herself just in time. ‘All that rot,’ she’d been about to say, but that would have sounded mocking and disrespectful. She wasn’t with her friends now, laughing at it all like some big joke to hide the fact that deep down, they were bloody terrified. Terrified of losing someone they loved. Terrified of dying themselves. And more than all that, terrified of losing the war – and of what might come after if they did. But that was defeatist talk, and even with Susan, her oldest, closest friend, Edie would never dare give voice to such an idea.

  ‘Well, let’s hope you still feel that way after a week or two of graft,’ Mrs Hewitt was saying when Edie tuned back in to the here and now. She looked Edie up and down, taking in her skinny five-foot-two frame and pale, freckled complexion. ‘I must say, I was hoping they’d send me someone rather more … a strong, sturdy country girl was what I asked for.’

  Edie suppressed a wave of annoyance. Why did everyone insist upon treating her like some puny weakling? She might be small, but she was determined.

  ‘I’m stronger than I look,’ she said. Mrs Hewitt, however, looked far from convinced.

  ‘Hmm. Well, for your sake I hope so. And, Edith, do make sure you wear a hat when you’re out in the sun. With your fair skin and red hair, you must burn terribly. Now follow me.’

  She led Edie into a room and gestured around it with little interest. ‘Sitting room. I never spend time in here, but you’re welcome to do so if you wish. I’ve a wireless set in the library I can have moved in for you. For myself, I mostly keep to my room of an evening and read. I’ve grown used to my own company since my son Bertie joined up.’

  The room was large, but somewhat neglected. Carpets and furnishings that must once have been grand had grown shabby, fraying at the edges, and a glass chandelier was missing much of its crystal. Furniture was covered by old cotton sheets.

  ‘That’s very kind,’ Edie said. ‘The other girls, do they sit in here?’

  ‘Other girls?’

  ‘I assumed you must have other Land Girls billeted with you. Don’t you?’

  ‘I told the county committee I only required one, to help Jack now the boy we used to have has been called up. I don’t care to have strangers in the house unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

  ‘Yes, but when you have all this space … there must be some way it can be used to help the war effort. It seems such a waste otherwise.’

  Mrs Hewitt frowned. ‘Young lady, I believe you’re forgetting yourself. What I do with my home is my business.’

  Edie flushed. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be impertinent. I simply thought …’

  ‘Not all thoughts need to be uttered. Some are far better off remaining in our heads.’ With a stern look that reminded Edie of Aunt Caroline in her terrifying, maiden-aunt prime, Mrs Hewitt beckoned for her to follow.

  ‘This is the dining room,’ she said, pushing open a door. ‘Dinner is served at 6 p.m., but as you’ll be working long hours during the lambing season, I’ve instructed Matilda, the cook, to be prepared with cold provisions on the days you’re at the farm.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now for the other rules, there are to be absolutely no gentlemen callers, or visitors of any kind without my prior consent. Curfew is 9 p.m. on weekdays, but on Saturdays you may stay out as late as 10 p.m. Monday to Wednesday you’ll be working here with Mr Graham, and from next week, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturday mornings will be spent at Larkstone Farm. Saturday afternoons are your own. Sundays we go to church, then you can spend the rest of the day how you wish. Are you church or chapel?’ Mrs Hewitt paused, then, when Edie didn’t answer immediately, carried on. ‘Because if you’re chapel, we’ve none in Applefield. You’ll have to bicycle to the next village. If you’re Catholic, there’s a makeshift place of worship in one of the Nicholsons’ old barns for the Italian prisoners of war – they live mostly at the farm during lambing. That’s if you don’t mind sharing with them, but after all, we’re all God’s children.’

  ‘Um, I’m Church of England,’ Edie said, feeling a little dazed by the barrage of information delivered in Mrs Hewitt’s staccato, no-nonsense manner. She wasn’t a regular churchgoer at home – not since her aunt had left for the country, anyhow – but she could see that her new landlady believed Sunday mornings ought to be spent on your knees or not at all.

  Mrs Hewitt nodded her approval. ‘Then you may come to St Mark’s with
me and the rest of the household. There are only the four of us: you, Mr Graham, Matilda and myself.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  Edie’s eyes were drawn to a couple of photographs in matching silver frames sitting on an oak dresser: two young men, one in army and one in navy uniform. They were very alike in build and features, although their outfits and the quality of the photographs showed them to be serving in different wars.

  ‘Your husband?’ she asked, nodding to the man in the army uniform.

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Hewitt followed Edie’s gaze, and for the first time her expression softened. ‘Albert. He was a captain in the last war.’

  ‘Did he come home?’

  Edie bit her lip almost as soon as she’d asked the question. What a thing to ask of a widow, and a stranger to boot! But Mrs Hewitt didn’t seem to have noticed, gazing at the photograph with a little smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

  ‘He was one of the lucky ones, I suppose, if you can call any of the men who lived through the horror of the trenches lucky. Yes, he came home.’ She sighed. ‘But he’s gone now.’

  ‘Your boy looks a lot like him.’

  ‘He does, and like him in character too,’ Mrs Hewitt said, with another brief flicker of a smile. ‘Scapegraces, the pair of them, always finding their way into trouble when they were lads. Young Bertie is a midshipman on the Majestic.’ Mrs Hewitt turned to look at her. ‘Do you have family in the Forces?’

  ‘Friends, yes, but no family. I don’t have any close relatives, besides an elderly aunt. My mother died giving birth to me, and I never had brothers or sisters.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Mrs Hewitt’s voice sounded ever so slightly gentler, and although her face was as stern as ever, there was pity in her eyes. In these days of loss upon loss, when everyone was encouraged to bury their grief under a song, a smile and a stiff upper lip, those telltale signs of compassion meant a lot.

  ‘What about your father?’ Mrs Hewitt asked.

  ‘He …’ Edie swallowed. ‘He’s dead too.’