A Christmas Candle

by Katie Flynn

  Eve shrugged, then pulled a wry face. ‘I’d like to say no,’ she admitted. ‘Not because I don’t like Connie – though I don’t – but because it riles me to see her walking off with Johnny and leaving me behind. But I must admit he seems to like her a lot and often takes her side against mine. So what is it that Johnny’s got and Robbo hasn’t? Any ideas?’

  Lily ruminated for a moment then shook her head. ‘If Johnny was older I’d suspect him of having sex appeal, but he simply isn’t old enough. And it’s not as though like was calling to like, because Johnny’s really straightforward, wouldn’t you say? He doesn’t hide his teeth, but comes straight out with whatever he’s thinking, whilst Connie never lets anyone know what goes on in her pretty little head.’ She looked speculatively at Eve. ‘Do you mind if I’m equally frank, Eve?’

  Eve giggled. ‘I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say I’m not pretty and Connie is, but that isn’t the point, is it? I just want to know why Connie likes Johnny best.’

  Lily laughed, but by this time they had reached the field and were beginning to round up the bullocks, so the subject was shelved until they were walking back down the hill with the beasts scrambling ahead of them, when Lily gave Eve the only answer she could think of.

  ‘Haven’t you noticed, when you’ve been in town or on the bus, how often a pretty woman is sitting next to an ugly man, and it’s clear that they’re married to one another? There’s no accounting for tastes, chick.’

  Eve’s forehead wrinkled. ‘I know what you mean,’ she said slowly. ‘But surely that’s different? Look at Mr and Mrs Smith, for instance; she’s really pretty still with lots of wavy white hair and beautiful skin, whereas old Mr Smith always reminds me of a toad because his eyes bulge and he’s usually grinning. But I suppose life has been harder on Mr Smith, because farm work truly is hard, isn’t it, Lily? And of course Mrs Smith spends most of her time indoors.’ She considered for a moment before speaking again. ‘Johnny will never be handsome, like Robbo.’ She sighed. ‘It was a daft question, anyway. Only … Johnny and I used to spend almost all of our free time together, and now he mostly goes off with Connie. But I suppose it doesn’t matter at all, really. Forget I even mentioned it.’

  Lily was about to agree when a thought seemed to strike her. ‘There might be another reason,’ she said slowly as Shep guided the bullocks out of the lane and into the farmyard. ‘I’ve met girls in my time who simply want whatever somebody else has. Could that be the answer?’

  It was Eve’s turn to shrug. ‘Dunno,’ she said. She grinned at her companion. ‘But if you’re right I’d better start making up to Robbo; then perhaps Connie will direct her attentions at him.’

  *

  The old woman sat on her mossy log trying to sort the memories into their proper place in her mind, but she soon realised this was impossible. She had never kept a diary, never dreaming that she could forget the wonderful years she had spent at Drake’s Farm. And she had not forgotten, or not what had happened, at any rate. What she had forgotten was the order in which these momentous events had occurred. She could run through her mind every aspect of each harvest tea but had no idea which one was which, although she remembered holding Chrissie firmly by the hand and promising him treats if only he would not try to join the workers as they sweated and strained to gather the sheaves into stooks before it grew too dark to see what they were doing.

  She herself had always been allowed to help with the hay harvest, she knew. She remembered bright June sunshine, riding home to the farm on the hay wain, and watching Mr Trevalyn as he arranged the harvested crop into intricate ricks. But were the memories from 1940, 1941 or 1942? She did not know, could not remember, and in any case what did it matter? What mattered was recapturing a young girl’s happiness, though she also remembered that there had been aspects of bringing in the wheat which in those early years Auntie Bess had thought the evacuees would not enjoy, so that the younger children had been removed from the field as darkness began to creep across the land.

  Sitting on her comfortable perch in the dappled sunlight, the old woman made one last attempt to recall her very first wheat harvest, but it was no use. Telling herself she had not returned to Drake’s Farm to compile a chronological – and probably very boring – list of her experiences, she leaned back in her seat and allowed her eyelids to droop. Tiny pictures bright as jewels began to appear in her mind’s eye, and she surrendered to their charm. They were what mattered, after all.

  September 1942

  The week during which they were due to harvest had been wet and overcast and Mr Faversham had not been the only farmer pulling a long face as he looked at his rolling fields of rain-soaked wheat, but one morning Eve was woken at an early hour by sunshine falling on her face and sat up with a jerk. She glanced at the alarm clock and then over the hump in Connie’s bed to Chrissie, who was stirring sleepily and trying to avoid the sun’s rays. The previous day the gentle rain of Devon had ceased around lunchtime, and now Eve remembered that Mr Smith, a good weather forecaster, had prophesied that they would have sunshine in which to harvest the desperately needed wheat. Mr Trevalyn had pulled a doubtful face, but sure enough, by the time the children were ready for bed, Mr Faversham had been making his plans for an early start.

  ‘But won’t the wheat still be wet?’ Eve had asked, when he had announced that he had discussed the matter with the neighbouring farmers and they had agreed to start cutting the next day. Mr Faversham had shaken his head.

  ‘’Tis the breeze what’ll dry out the crops,’ he explained kindly. ‘Don’t ’ee worry, maid; by the time ’tis light enough to work we’ll have a binder down the lane and everyone assembling.’ He grinned at Eve, standing at his elbow and thinking doubtfully about the sodden wheat. ‘Now, we’ll be glad of your help tomorrow, but don’t forget, building stooks has to be learned; you can’t just pile ’em up any old how. But if Mr Smith says the weather will stay good – and he does – then it looks as though we’re all set for a grand harvest.’

  So now Eve hopped out of bed and poked her head out into the early morning sunshine and felt it warm on her face. She gave a muted crow of satisfaction and heard Chrissie’s bedsprings creak. It was a case of all hands to the pump at harvest time, and Auntie Bess had explained that everything, but everything, stopped until everyone’s wheat was gathered in, so Chrissie would have to go to the rectory with the other children too small and young to assist and be kept an eye on by Mrs Ryder and anyone else who was not taking part in the harvest. Chrissie had not been pleased, especially when he heard that Connie, whose claims of a bad back had reached their climax the previous day, was one of the volunteers who would look after the little ones.

  Initially, Chrissie had admired Connie greatly, saying over and over that she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen and much nicer than Eve, but that had been during what Lily had called the honeymoon period, before the reality of Connie’s selfishness became apparent even to him. Other volunteers might play games with the children, give them piggy backs round the rectory garden or take them to the post office to buy a few off-ration goodies, but Connie was not one of these. She did not make the children work, because that would have meant doing something herself, but she insisted that her lightest commands were obeyed, rigorously enforced an hour’s sleep after their sandwich lunch, detached them from their favourite toys, and would not let them play in the sand tray or with modelling clay because she said she had better things to do with her time than to clear up after snotty brats.

  Chrissie had been downright delighted when he was taken out of the nursery class and put in what he called ‘real school’, but because of the harvest he would have to join the other youngsters again and he had told Eve the previous evening that Connie would be nasty to him as soon as she got him away from the adults.

  ‘She don’t like me,’ he wailed when he realised who was going to be in charge. ‘Why can’t I come with you? I’m a big boy now, Eve; I’ve been in real scho
ol for nearly two years!’

  Eve hesitated. She knew Chrissie was right: Connie did not like him – or indeed any other young children – but it would be Mrs Ryder who was truly in charge and she would not let Chrissie be bullied, especially if Eve had a word with her first. So now Eve padded across to the washstand, poured out water and soaked the flannel. Soap – and toothpaste – were two of the commodities which had disappeared from the shops, and ingenious though Auntie Bess might be she had not yet found a substitute for either of these. When she and Mrs Spindlebush took their fruit and vegetables into the town to sell them to those less fortunately placed she offered to barter anything in season in return for soap or toothpaste, but this ploy did not work every time, presumably since everyone was in the same boat. Eve summoned Chrissie over to the stand and washed him vigorously, pointed to his clothing and told him that if she had a good report from kind Mrs Ryder about his behaviour she would try to persuade Uncle Reg to let him come to the harvest field with the others the following day.

  Chrissie had been inclined to whine and threaten bad behaviour but this remark made him cheer up wonderfully.

  ‘I’ll be good as gold; I’ll help Mrs Ryder with the kids in the baby class and I won’t grumble,’ he promised. ‘How old do you have to be to help with the harvest, Eve? Will I be old enough next year?’

  Eve, dressing herself and watching with some amusement Chrissie’s attempt to get both arms down the same sleeve of his shirt, pretended to consider, although in reality she had no idea of the age of the youngest harvesters, though she thought it was probably nine or ten. After all, she had been helping with the harvest ever since they had arrived at the farm and no one had objected.

  She was turning towards the door when she remembered that Connie was supposed to be at the rectory in time to welcome Mrs Ryder’s charges, and turned back to give the other girl’s shoulder a brisk shaking.

  ‘Get up, get up, get up, you lazy devil,’ she chanted. ‘I feel so sorry for you …’

  Connie groaned and put her head under her pillow to muffle the sound of Chrissie imitating a bugle call to arms, and though Eve was tempted to give her a salutary slap she refrained, since she suspected that Connie would take it out on Chrissie if she did something so unwise. However, when Connie made no further move Eve sighed, picked up the end of the bed and tipped its occupant out on to the bare boards of the floor.

  ‘I said get up,’ she repeated. ‘And don’t think I’m not wise to your nasty little ways – I know you only said you had a bad back to get out of helping with the harvest, though goodness knows why you’d want to. Anyway, it means you’re stuck with looking after the youngsters today, so do come on.’ She sniffed loudly. ‘I smell porridge! Well, shall I go down and tell Auntie Bess that you don’t want any breakfast?’

  Connie sat up and Eve noted bitterly that the other girl looked even prettier flushed and tangled in her blanket on the floor whilst glaring up at her tormentor.

  ‘All right, all right, I suppose for once you have a point,’ Connie said peevishly. ‘And now you can jolly well get out and let me dress in peace. Did you leave me some clean water in the ewer? Or do you expect me to go traipsing off downstairs for more?’

  Having seen Connie struggling out of her bedding Eve moved towards the door. ‘You can do as you please,’ she said airily. ‘I take it you’re helping with the harvest tea? I heard Auntie Bess saying yesterday that Mrs Ryder was going to make the tea on a Primus so people can have more than one cup if they want – the men will have cider, of course, and the kids will have milk, I expect, so you’re going to be pretty busy.’

  Connie moaned and tipped the dirty washing water into the slop bucket, then damped the flannel and washed her face, not bothering with her neck, arms or indeed any other portion of her anatomy. Auntie Bess said that children who didn’t wash properly got spots, warts and various other unsightly ills and for many weeks Eve had watched hopefully for Connie’s smooth skin to become appropriately blemished. But for some reason Auntie Bess’s rule did not seem to apply to Connie, who remained spot-free and, presumably, dirty. Eventually Connie responded to Eve’s question.

  ‘Make the harvest tea when I’ve got those bloody kids to keep an eye on? Don’t make me laugh,’ she said scornfully. ‘Mrs Ryder is in charge so she can damned well produce her own share of the grub.’ She began to tick items off on her fingers. ‘Mrs Spindlebush has made the biggest apple pie you’ve ever seen and the lady from the post office – can’t remember her name – has made the harvest cake, using chopped-up carrots in place of dried fruit. It sounds horrible, but Auntie Bess says it’s just grand. There’s a pork pie made from the meat the government let Uncle Reg keep and I guess there’ll be no end of sandwiches; Spam, corned beef, cucumber, tomatoes …’

  ‘Well, don’t go feeding your face on what’s meant for the harvesters,’ Eve said. She knew the other girl was quite capable of secreting upon her person any little extra that took her fancy, but Connie just sniggered and followed Eve and Chrissie as they clattered down the attic stairs.

  ‘I don’t eat nearly as much as you, Fatty Arbuckle,’ she said spitefully. ‘And though I shall have my share of the harvest tea I’m going straight to bed afterwards, so it won’t be me doing the washing up.’

  ‘Bed?’ Eve echoed. ‘What on earth are you talking about? It’ll be too early for bed.’

  They had reached the kitchen by this time and Connie gave Eve a withering look. ‘You don’t suffer from migraines the way I do, and after a full day with screaming brats I dare say my head’ll be fit to pop!’

  Eve had opened her mouth to make a retort when Auntie Bess cut in. ‘Eat up and shut up,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Speaking for myself I’d rather work at ten harvests than look after those children for a whole day, especially if one of them is Chrissie.’ She wagged a reproving finger at Connie. ‘And don’t you think you can abandon poor Mrs Ryder to those little monkeys because in my opinion she’s got enough on her plate with the harvest tea. I’m just worried that someone might run into the road or fall into the pond or get in the way of the binder, because you’ll be expected to shepherd all the kids up to the field as soon as she gives the word.’

  Connie looked both startled and annoyed. ‘No one told me I’d have to take the little beasts up to the field,’ she said huffily. ‘I just wish someone had trained Shep to herd kids instead of sheep and cows.’ For once she looked at Eve with an almost pleasant expression on her pretty face. ‘Can’t you come down to the rectory and give me a hand?’ she pleaded. ‘It wouldn’t hurt you to help me out, just this once.’

  Eve was about to retort indignantly that she would have quite enough to do without adding Connie’s work to her own when it occurred to her that this was a chance to show both Auntie Bess and Lily, who were watching her as they ate their porridge, that she really was trying to be nice to the other girl. She was beginning to say that she would do her best to get away when the back door opened and Mr Smith entered the kitchen. The fine weather had obviously affected him, for his face wore a large smile, though his words were spoken in a mournful tone.

  ‘That porridge looks good, missus. Can I scrape out the pan?’ he asked. ‘My good woman ran out of milk this mornin’ and had to make our oats wi’ water. Imagine that, young Chrissie.’ He winked at the assembled company, giving Auntie Bess such a droll look that she laughed, dished out a plate of porridge and pushed it over to the empty place before him.

  ‘One of these days you’ll burst, Sam Smith,’ she said as he began to eat. ‘I dare say you’re eager to start, so I take it Mr Faversham has told everyone what jobs they are to do?’

  ‘He has that,’ Mr Smith said through a mouthful of porridge. ‘I’m in charge of the binder, which will be pulled by Dapple and Flicker, and the land girls will be collectin’ the sheaves and makin’ them into stooks. The kids – the Spindlebush lot and young Eve here – will be digging up the potatoes in the far field and putting them into buckets, whilst Mr Treva
lyn oversees the normal farm work – the essential stuff, that is.’

  Auntie Bess smiled at Eve. ‘And I want you to be sure to keep Chrissie with you when tea’s over, because Uncle Reg will have his gun out and we don’t want no one peppered by mistake.’

  ‘What will he be shooting at?’ Eve asked. She knew the farmer went out, usually first thing in the morning or last thing at night, to shoot rabbits for the pot, saying with satisfaction as he brought the dead bunnies into the kitchen that they’d been eating his crops so the more he shot the better.

  ‘Vermin,’ Mrs Faversham said. ‘He reckons that for every rat he puts out of action he saves a good bucket of poultry feed, because them rats get into everything, you know, even the metal bins which some people’ – and here she looked very hard at Connie – ‘leave the bin lids up instead of closing them.’

  Eve carried her empty porridge dish over to the sink and turned a puzzled face to Auntie Bess. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Uncle Reg often takes a gun out after rabbits; why should today be any different?’ She was watching Auntie Bess as she spoke and saw a look that could almost have been regret cross her foster-mother’s face, but her reply, when it came, was practical.

  ‘While the binder’s cuttin’ round the edge of the wheat the rabbits and rats and so on retreat towards the middle, thinkin’ they can hide there. But as the horses come closer the critters realise their safe refuge isn’t safe at all so they bolt for the hedges and ditches and the men are waitin’ to pick them off.’ She smiled a little uncomfortably at Eve. ‘You don’t want to find yourself peppered with shot, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Eve said fervently, ‘only what about the harvest tea? Will the little ones be safe?’

  Auntie Bess nodded. ‘Course they will, my lovely. Take my word for it: everything stops for tea, even potting rabbits!’

  Eve dropped the last potato into the bucket and stood up to ease her aching back, then nudged Johnny who was just finishing his own row.