by Lizzie Page
They were summoned from the hillside
They were called in from the glen,
And the country found them ready
At the stirring call for men.
Let no tears add to their hardships
As the soldiers pass along,
And although your heart is breaking
Make it sing this cheery song
When everyone had a copy of the lyrics, we sang it, all of us together, as David played. I felt myself becoming tearful, thinking of Richard and how he’d heard the stirring call.
David and Mrs Ford couldn’t agree on the title. They were arguing good-humouredly, but neither would back down. They asked each of us: Olive and me, Uilleam Chisholm – the curly-haired boy Olive had introduced me to – Walter, two actresses, Johnny, Frank and Clive, to raise our glasses for a favourite title.
‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ got just two votes: only Uilleam and I chose it. Everybody else preferred ‘’Til the Boys Come Home’. Uilleam and I laughed: ‘That told us, then!’ he said.
Mrs Ford snuck an arm round us both. ‘Actually, it’s for the publisher to decide. It could well change yet.’
David went around the room shaking everyone’s hands, thanking them for their contribution and saying, ‘I daresay we’ve got a hit on our hands.’
But Mrs Ford had to outdo him. ‘David, darling, it’s going to go down in history!’
Mrs Ford was nothing if not ambitious. We all clapped each other on the back once again. We were so excited. We felt like on this piece of paper the war was won.
We were so naive.
7
1939 – Now
There is going to be a welcome party for the evacuees in the church hall. Pearl Posner has no party clothes: there is nothing shiny or pretty in the wardrobe. Either she is a functionalist like Olive, who once threw clothes out of the window in a fit of pique against capitalism, or she is very poor. I suspect the latter.
I decide to take Pearl to the shops in town and we set off excitedly. The upset of the other night is all forgotten, thankfully, and instead, she chats breezily about the markets back at home: the barrels of salted herrings, the performing monkey who wears baby clothes and the rows of purple cabbages. It sounds like a different world.
A shopkeeper comes out to tell me that he’s already seen three evacuees this morning, and they’ve all got head lice and ‘What’s the matter with them from London? Don’t they wash?’
I don’t even know this man, but I don’t like his tone. He expects me to agree with everything he says. What a shock he’d have if I didn’t.
I steer Pearl away and along to the next dress shop, where I know kind Mrs Purnell will cluck over the wooden counter and compliment Pearl. Mrs Purnell is a soft touch. Once, at a bus stop, I heard teenagers say that ‘if you want to get your hands in the till, Mrs Purnell’s shop is the best one’.
But after the doorbell has announced our arrival, we find Mrs Purnell is not there; instead, it’s her daughter taking care of the shop, the newly married Mrs Fraser. Mrs Fraser swings over to us, her high heels clattering on the floorboards. Her skirt is tight and her blouse, with its pussycat bow, is immaculate. She looks dressed for a dance. I don’t know Mr or Mrs Fraser, but Mrs Burton has warned me that ‘Mr Fraser is not half so good as he thinks he is.’
‘You got one then?’
‘Uh huh.’
Mrs Fraser licks her lips. ‘She looks Italian. Is she Italian?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say, wishing I could make us both invisible.
‘I went to Italy a few years ago,’ she says. ‘Rome, Venice, the lot. I’ll tell you this for a fact: the Vatican is overrated.’
I imagine Mrs Fraser at the Coliseum, making mincemeat out of the lions.
Pearl waits patiently as Mrs Fraser examines her.
‘Is she a Jew then? They sometimes look Italian, it’s all in the nose.’ She taps her own, mysteriously.
I wince.
Mrs Fraser says, ‘What?’ quite sharply.
I’m a coward. What can I say? I mumble, ‘Sorry, I’ve had this headache since yesterday… can’t seem to shake it off.’
I wonder how kind Mrs Purnell ended up with a daughter like this.
* * *
Pearl is reluctant to choose anything at first. Then, after some cajoling, she selects a navy cotton pinafore – she is smaller than the size small but Mrs Fraser says her mother will take it in. I say, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it.’ Mrs Fraser wants to argue and for a moment, I fear we are going to get into a tug of war over the alterations, but she glares at me for a while and then backs down.
‘If you insist.’
‘I like sewing,’ I say, more to myself than anyone else.
I buy a little matching cotton blouse to go with it, sized for ages 5–6 because Pearl really is small. She will look a dream.
‘She’s malnourished,’ barks Mrs Fraser triumphantly. ‘That’s what they do, you know.’
Outside, Pearl doesn’t seem disturbed by Mrs Fraser. She is concerned only with her pinafore. She declares it’s the prettiest thing she’s ever seen and when Hitler is beaten, can she please take it home to London?
‘Of course, love,’ I say, mindful of her tears the other night. ‘And that won’t be too long, I’m sure.’
* * *
There is cotton bunting along all the walls of the church hall. The triangular Union Jack in umpteen rows – sixty, seventy of them. Lest we forget which side we’re on. Then there are signs written on a bed sheet: Welcome Children and Hinckley Hearts London. Most of the adults from London are going back tomorrow. They have homes and families to attend to. The teachers are tall, quiet women: it feels strangely appropriate that these teachers are taller than the rest of us. Pearl goes to join one of them who is reading The Tales of Peter Rabbit to a small group of children.
Mrs Burton arrives laden down with tins and trays, apologising for being late even though she isn’t. She doesn’t have a horse in this race, but she has been cooking and cutting and primping for us all. It’s nice to have a friend here and I go and help unpack her cakes.
The adults are all talking about Mr Hitler and how, ‘silly bugger, he came back for more. Didn’t he learn his blinking lesson the last time?’ I get chatting to my neighbour, Mrs Dean, who has also taken a London child, a ten-year-old boy. Out of nowhere, she says that she worked as a nurse during the Great War, in the Somme. I don’t know how she knows that I was in France too – the village grapevine, I suppose – but she does. She murmurs, ‘Brings it all back, don’t it?’
I nod wordlessly.
‘Lose someone, did you?’
‘Mm,’ I say. She puts her hand on mine. I am only just getting used to Pearl laying her hands on me like I’m a piece of furniture; I’m not ready for other people to do it yet.
I squirm and she relents.
‘It won’t be like last time, Mrs Lowe,’ she advises. She speaks with complete conviction, and even though I admire it, I think, How does anyone know what it will be like?
* * *
There are sandwiches in ever-decreasing circles on trays.
‘All the C’s.’ Mr Shaw nudges me, and as usual, I’m not sure what his joke means. He explains. ‘The sandwiches.’ He says it like Sam-Witches. ‘Cress. Cheese. Cucumber…’ I point out there is also ham, hating myself as I do so.
The other Stepney boy, Nathan, comes over to say hello to Pearl. He tells us he is living on the farm with Farmer Jones and his wife and for some reason, I pretend I don’t already know that. He tells me he has just had his fifteenth birthday; they got him presents and a cake and everything. He is the cat who’s got the cream – but he’s a well-mannered boy, you can’t begrudge him. He reminds me of some of the younger Tommys we used to transport in Belgium – and I’m not surprised that Mrs Burton’s noisy daughters fall into awestruck silence at the sight of him.
‘Would you like a sandwich?’ I offer him the tray. He looks through them car
efully, then warily selects the cress. He looks at me with troubled eyes.
‘Farmer Jones gives me pork,’ he says in a low voice. ‘I’m not supposed to eat pork.’
‘Have you explained that to him?’ I say. My heart is beating fast as I think of Sam. I can imagine he was like this boy once.
‘I have.’
‘What did he do then?’
‘He fried me some bacon instead.’
I don’t know if he is upset or not.
‘It’s fine,’ I say eventually, for he seems to think I know about these things. I try to be wise. ‘How about you eat pork here, but not when you’re back home? Would that be okay?’
He nods.
Eating the sandwiches, Pearl advises me that she doesn’t eat crusts. I’m not sure where I stand on the crust question. I don’t know if one pushes these things? I know my father would have insisted I eat them up and I know fear would have swallowed them down for me. But I also know Olive used to slip her crusts under the plate.
I say, ‘Pearl, they will make your hair curl,’ and she scowls at me.
‘But I don’t want curly hair, I want wavy hair like yours.’
She drinks her blackcurrant cordial very fast and it leaves a little purple moustache. I don’t know why but that reminds me of Edmund, in 1914, before he went to France.
I must stop living in the past.
* * *
I wait for Edmund to join us at the party. I told him about it yesterday; I even left a pleading note. It will be good for us. I suppose I knew deep down he wouldn’t come. It’s painful seeing some of the other host fathers here. There are host grandfathers and grandmothers too. Why can’t we be more like them?
A small blond boy with a plaster holding his glasses frames together stands in front of me and laboriously recites: ‘Hitler has only got one ball, the other is in the—’
I shush him gently as he points to a group of sniggering bigger boys. ‘They told me to say it.’
‘Did they now?’ I try to look disapproving.
He leans in, whispers, ‘What does it mean anyway?’
‘Maybe it means Hitler likes football?’ I shrug.
‘Or tennis!’ he agrees happily.
‘Oh yes, but silly Hitler, he keeps losing his equipment.’
Pearl splutters into her cordial. ‘Even I know what it means, and it doesn’t mean that.’
The vicar asks if I wouldn’t mind playing the piano. I feel irritated for an instant, because I’m not the entertainment, I’m here as a host mother, but then everyone else is in cosy groups, and I’m not. And I like the vicar; he’s always been kind and never made me feel like an outsider. Brightly, I ask, ‘What, now?’ and he says, ‘Well, I don’t mean tomorrow, do I?’
He’s another one who tries to be funny.
While I am playing a favourite – ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips’ – the deputy mayor wanders over and sits too close to me on the bench. Some time ago, he asked if I could concentrate if he talked while I played. Stupidly, proudly, I had said that I could. Now, whenever I play, he plants himself beside me and talks at me.
‘How do you always look so well turned out, Mrs Lowe?’
What can I say to that?
‘This shows off your lovely shape. I bet you had all the suitors back in the day. Mr Lowe is a lucky man.’
I concentrate on the tulips I am tiptoeing through.
‘What’s your one like then?’
‘Fine.’ I plonk onwards, looking across the room for ‘my one’.
Pearl has pulled her coat over herself and is lying across two chairs. I think she may have fallen asleep.
‘If you want to swap or get rid, just say the word.’ The deputy mayor puts his freckled hand on my knee. ‘I’ll sort you out. No need for payment.’ He scratches his nail into my stockings and I play a crashing chord, like a cry for help.
Everyone looks round. ‘Sorry!’ I call. Pearl sits bolt upright, squinting at me. The deputy mayor stands up quickly.
‘No offence meant,’ he says, stroking his moustache.
‘None taken,’ I reply, not looking at him.
The vicar comes over, even more pleased with himself than usual for he has gathered some song requests. Top of his list is ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’.
I knew they would ask for that. I don’t play it any more. I tell him I don’t remember the tune and go straight to second one down: ‘The Biggest Aspidistra in the World.’
8
1914 – Then
The telegram came to the office the morning of 24 November. Dear God. No. The very worst news. Father and I hugged each other tightly, then he said he would away to Aunt Cecily’s immediately. He was weeping as he ran out into the street.
He had told me to stay behind until Mrs Webster arrived, but I had to do something, I couldn’t just sit there, so I locked up and took a carriage soon after he’d gone. I had only ever been to Goldsmiths for the end-of-term exhibitions, never when it was a normal working college. But I needed to go now: I needed Olive.
Voice shaking, I urged the driver to go as fast as he could, and he told me, ‘Keep your ruddy hat on.’ I slumped back in my seat, shamed. Then he seemed to soften. ‘Is it an emergency, Miss?’ and I told him, ‘Unfortunately, it is,’ and he took me a back way along the cobbled side streets. I was shivering like it was the depths of winter.
At the college, the sign for the arts department seemed to be deliberately small and hidden. Relieved not to have missed it, I turned my trot into a skirt-holding gallop. As soon as Olive saw me, she would realise something was wrong. Things could not have been more wrong. I couldn’t think about that yet though. I had to get Olive.
There were men, men everywhere. I didn’t know how Olive could stand it. Soon I found my destination, a studio B, but she wasn’t there, and so I was sent upstairs, up to the third floor. I knocked on a door, heard a deep voice, a rumbling like an underground train. ‘Enter.’
The first thing I saw was a man, lying on a chaise longue, wearing nothing at all. Stone cold naked. I saw his thighs, a nest of hair and his penis. When he noticed me, he dragged a towel over his private parts but not as quickly as he might have, and to make matters worse, he winked. He had terrible teeth too, terrible. I looked away sharpish. How could that be right? I knew Olive had fought quite a battle to get into the life drawing classes. The college thought it was inappropriate for female students. Now I found myself siding with the college. Was this what she had fought for the right to draw?
Edmund’s mother would have a fit if she knew about this.
Anyway, I didn’t have time to debate the merits of debauchery in an arts education. Where could my sister be?
A small, red-headed man with a beard looked at his pocket watch. He must have been the teacher, unlikely though it seemed.
‘Miss Mudie-Cooke? Yes, she should be here today’ – He gazed around him, pulled his lips down and shrugged – ‘but she doesn’t appear to be.’
Outside the college, I hailed another taxi – dear Olive, what a wild goose chase – and ordered it to Warrington Crescent. Perhaps Mrs Ford knew where my sister had got to? Again, I asked the driver for the quickest route but this one blew his nose on his filthy kerchief and declared there wasn’t one. I sat back on the bench, tears in my eyes, feeling quite defeated. I was desperate for Olive. I could have waited until she returned home but it wasn’t yet eleven and she usually came back about six in the evening; that would mean waiting eight hours. I couldn’t not let her know. Not when I knew. Little made Olive more furious than inequality of information – she had a younger sibling’s fear of being left out.
I told the driver to pull over, not at number sixty-three, but near Kensington High Street. I suggested it would be easier for him, but in truth I wanted a moment on my own to collect myself. Then I ran past the station, my black cape flying, past the news-seller, past the postboxes, past the Britons Want You! posters and Kitchener’s exceptionally good hands.
And I
tried not to think about the naked man I had just seen, reclining on the sofa.
* * *
I had hammered on the front door several times before I noticed the shiny brass bell. Of course. I rang it with varying rhythms before keeping my finger on it.
And breathe, I told myself. Breathe.
No one answered.
Then, eventually, a noise, footsteps on the stairs, the front door slowly opening. Olive was standing there, dishevelled. She was shocked to see me, and I was shocked to see her too. I was expecting Mrs Ford, not Olive, and why was she turned out so badly? No shoes, no socks. Almost as bad as the man on the sofa— no, no, not that awful. Dress unbuttoned, hair half up, half down. I remembered her hair was definitely up when she left the house, because I’d watched her from the window. I often did. There was always something charming about watching Olive striding off down the street on her way to change the world.
‘Darling?’ she said, clapping her hand over her mouth in surprise. ‘What on earth brings you here?’
‘Wha-at? Where is Mrs Ford?’
‘She’s upstairs,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to get her?
I tried to edge past her. For once, number sixty-three was quiet – eerily quiet, it seemed to me. There was no Walter, no music and no piano. None of the usual crowd was here. No David, no Johnny, no pouting actresses, no Uilleam… Well, it was ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning; even those without a job would have the temerity to pretend they were working.
‘No, it’s you I wanted anyway. You’re the reason I came…’
Olive steadied my arm. It must have been clear what an abject state I was in.
‘What is it, darling? Talk to me!’
‘It’s Richard.’
I thought she would understand straight away, but she didn’t. She stared at me, bewildered.