Shelter

by Sarah Franklin

  ‘For the love of –!’

  The skinned, headless creature under the paper was about the size of a doll, but a doll from the horror pictures, all dark-red flesh and squishy-looking bits of white stuff. Rabbit – wasn’t that what Joyce said they were when they were doll-sized? She pushed it into the pot then opened the back door and pulled up a great handful of parsley from the beds, taking a huge breath of fresh air at the same time.

  Joyce seemed less set against newcomers than Amos. She’d found her the billet, after all, and was showing her what to do with all this mad food that seemed so alive. Maybe she got a kick out of helping people.

  Connie stuffed the parsley on top of the meat with a handful of parsnips and a couple of potatoes she’d found in the scullery. She splashed a jug of water over the lot of it – there! That’d stop it from scorching and clean off the veg at the same time. She was getting the hang of this dinner lark. Nearest she’d got to cooking in Coventry was being sent down the road for a bag of chips on payday.

  She wasn’t quite sure how she’d ended up being in charge of the dinners here, but Amos was a decent sort and cooking was a simple enough way to stay in his good books. It’d only be a matter of time now until he found out about the baby – her dungarees were about to burst and she must look like a total nutcase, wearing her great big overcoat now they were finally getting some warmer weather. If Seppe had twigged it, Amos couldn’t be far off. She’d be out of his hair as soon as the baby was born, but until then she couldn’t risk him throwing her out, not now.

  The doctor would have to stay out of it, too; that would cost money she’d need for rent in the city and it was always better to avoid people who’d ask questions. Have the baby, tidy up, then find somewhere to leave it to be looked after on her way to the station. It was hardly the stuff of dreams, but it was the best plan she had.

  Did that make her selfish? Mam had called her selfish the last time she’d stayed out instead of coming home to mind the little ones. Who wanted to be brought up by a selfish mother? The baby would be so much better off with a mam who wasn’t always cocking an ear elsewhere, wondering what else was going on.

  She pushed the pan over to the side, where it wouldn’t burn. Enough fannying around here, thinking about things. She needed to find those clean socks and be off. It was a hell of a walk up to Cinderford, but if she started now she’d make it back before Amos was home from that final check of the sheep.

  Connie stopped and lit a cigarette to get her up what must be, God willing, the last hill, her feet rubbed raw even in these dry socks.

  When the straggly houses on the outskirts of Cinderford finally appeared – gardens lined with rows of vegetables, blackouts still up in some of the upstairs windows like rotting teeth against the whitewashed walls – they were as welcome a sight as that first glass of gin at the end of a shift.

  Connie peered down the weary main street. There was a church just over there with a big porch. That would be the place to put the baby, where some charitable type would be bound to take pity on it. And there was the train station, up the top there, beyond the row of shops and the little white houses. Nothing was signposted any more, but you’d have to be a bit daft not to be able to recognise a railway station.

  She stopped halfway up to get her breath, leaning against a shop window. There was a display of tiny baby clothes in it, all laid out as if the babies themselves had disappeared in a puff of smoke. She wasn’t too worried about clothes for the baby; she could use one of her sweaters to keep the little blighter cosy for the short time it’d be with her. That’d be all right, wouldn’t it? As long as it was warm? Everybody here was proper able to make do and mend; the baby would be kitted out before she’d even opened her eyes.

  Connie peered more closely into the window, sizing up the baby gear as if it was an oak and she had to place the first cut. What did her sisters wear when they were that small? She balled her fists against the remembered smell of tattered socks and plump little iodiney grazed knees, but she couldn’t picture what size they’d been when they’d been born. Bigger or smaller than that rabbit she’d shoved into the pot earlier?

  Maybe she should go in and pick up something for the baby, so that it didn’t grow up to think its mother was a heartless sort. Connie jangled open the door and kept her head down. In and out, that’s what she needed to be.

  Hanging off a display in the corner was the perfect thing – a pink twill bonnet with a ribbon. Connie rifled through her pockets and found her battered coupons. There! That’d do the trick; whoever found the baby would know that Connie had thought about her. And the baby would realise later that her mam was a glamorous, adventuring type who couldn’t stick around here in the trees wasting her life.

  The forest would be a great place for a baby to be raised, she’d been right about that, certainly if you were a bustling homey type like Joyce. But Connie wasn’t set up that way, and she had enough gumption to know that what was best for her wouldn’t be what was best for the baby.

  She’d barely got up to the counter when the bell jangled the door open. It was Joyce. Joyce! Of all the people! She needed to keep her job, and she needed to keep her digs, and if Joyce knew she was in the family way she was bound to tell and Frank and Amos would give her her marching orders, not a shadow of a doubt. And she couldn’t have that, not yet.

  Connie pushed her way through to the door.

  ‘Forgot my coupons.’ As the door swung shut behind Connie she heard the shop assistant: ‘Forgot her manners an’ all.’ She probably thought Connie had been trying to pinch something. The cheek of it! She hadn’t lifted a thing since rationing had started. It wouldn’t be right.

  Connie got safely round the corner off the high street and leaned against a wall beside some enormous white-flowered plant that made her sneeze and sneeze. Probably going to be the next thing to end up in the dinner pot, and now she’d got snot all over it.

  ‘Well, you made a right dog’s dinner of that, didn’t you?’ Could she still get up to the train station, or would Joyce spot her and wonder what she was up to? Surely there was some excuse she could make up? Connie badly needed to at least get her mitts on a timetable so that she could work out what time of day would be best in terms of finding somewhere for the baby and then getting out before she lost her nerve. Maybe if she couldn’t get as far as London straight away, she could get over to Bristol – that wasn’t supposed to be all that far from here.

  But she simply couldn’t face risking the train station, not now. Maybe Joyce wouldn’t say anything, or would believe Connie’s story, but what if she didn’t? She half wondered if Amos knew, had noticed how she was filling out, but he kept shtum about everything. Joyce would have an opinion, and Connie would hear it whether she wanted to or not. Joyce had been good to her and she felt sick at the idea of letting her down because Joyce reminded her of Mam, and she knew Mam would be disappointed to see what had become of Connie.

  Tears, unexpected and unwanted, began to flow. Connie scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. There was no hope now of checking out the trains, but at least she’d found the churchyard, got a bit further along with the plan. And the baby would do fine without its bonnet.

  Connie bit her lip and set back off down the hill, slower now. It had been a stupid idea, anyway. She’d simply have to wait for a train to take her away when the time came. She’d always flown by the seat of her pants and she had to trust it would work out. She sniffed slightly, looked up at the sun dipping down below the treeline. Make do and mend, that’s what she’d have to do.

  Nineteen

  ‘LET’S GET THIS BEAST back to wherever he came from, shall we?’ Connie pushed herself up off the log they’d been sitting on to eat their bread and cheese. ‘I’m full to bursting with the extra snap Joyce sent up with Frank today.’

  She frowned at the horse standing placidly roped to a log. ‘Don’t see why we couldn’t have stuck with the tractors. This dirty great animal gives me the shivers.
’

  Seppe pointed at the churn beneath their boots. ‘Even a tractor can’t move through this mud.’ Frank had been bitter about it when he’d assigned them the task. ‘Don’t normally get like this in July. We’ve been working the land too hard. Never mind destroying the enemy, we’re destroying our own country.’

  ‘What about the roads the Yanks are building out here?’

  ‘This is for their war work and not for ours. The horse is the best way.’ He patted the horse’s flank affectionately.

  Connie eyes narrowed. ‘Farmer’s boy, are you? I’m surprised you don’t know your way around an axe better.’

  ‘No, I come from a big city. Big for Italy, anyway. Important in the north. But my father … sometimes it was better to be away from the house. Since a child, I have spent much time in stables. He does not think to find me there.’

  The smell of the horse had Seppe half back in the stable, crouched in fear, the straw quivering as he trembled at the thought of being discovered.

  Connie considered him thoughtfully. ‘Sometimes it’s better for us all to be out. My dad wasn’t scary, but he liked a drink, and there was no knowing what mood he might come home in.’

  If they continued this line of discussion he might tell her things he’d regret later.

  ‘Come here – let me show you something.’

  Connie frowned at Seppe but she moved forwards gingerly. She was brave under that tough exterior. Don’t bite her, he prayed in the horse’s direction.

  Seppe took her hand. It was soft, softer than he could have imagined given the hours they spent felling. He pressed it up against Prince’s neck and together they stroked the horse. Connie’s shoulders dropped a little and she flashed him a smile – one he saw too infrequently these days. On the whole she’d been quieter recently, more thoughtful. She didn’t think he noticed when she stood off to one side sometimes, her gaze elsewhere, her thoughts with people or places he couldn’t access, couldn’t even imagine. They barely discussed their pasts, though now that her accent slid away from him less often, they were better able to talk from time to time. She was a hard worker, and kind, and he found himself seeking out ways to make her smile. Connie was someone you wanted to see smile; when she was happy, the glow captured everyone around her, too.

  It made it easier to forget Fredo’s continued assault, the sting of his father’s letters. ‘Alfredo’s mother gossips about your sister; claims her son heard it from you in that coward’s camp. Your mother is very worried and has been provoking my mood, which is fragile after such concerning news.’

  But the forest was where he came to escape these thoughts, and he mustn’t let them invade now. Seppe smiled at Connie.

  ‘Shall we get this horse home?’

  Seppe set the pace, one hand on the bridle. He looked back as they met the first slope. Connie was pushing up the hill, flinching each time Prince’s tail swished, one hand supporting the weight of her belly.

  Steam rose off the horse’s withers, mingling with Seppe’s breath as he clucked at Prince, slowed him to a halt. Connie pushed past the horse to his side, her breathing laboured. Despite the exertion she was milky pale against the sheen of glistening ferns. He caught a glimpse of her teeth, clenched tighter than a clamp, and an urge to protect her rose like sap. He had never seen her chatting to the other lumberjills; nothing beyond the superficial banter she loved almost as much as Gianni did. It was up to him to keep her safe, and her determination that she had to manage alone only made him want to help her more, not less.

  How could she still be pretending this wasn’t happening to her? Why hadn’t Frank detected anything yet? Joyce had, he was certain of it; that’s surely why she’d sent the extra food. Had Connie confided in Joyce but not in him?

  When he got back to camp he’d talk to Gianni, who knew how to find everything. He could barter his camp-issued postcards home. Gianni was always desperate to write to his family whereas Seppe never used his allocation. Then he, too, could bring Connie some eggs, perhaps a hunk of cheese. That would be something to be proud of.

  But this wasn’t about him and his growing inclination to watch out for this maddening, caring young woman. Where would she live with the baby? What would Frank do?

  How did Connie think she was going to raise a baby out here, away from her home, wherever that was, and without any obvious family, let alone a husband? She’d never mentioned a sweetheart killed in the war, so clearly whoever the father was, he was useless and not worth the time of day to leave someone as resourceful and funny as Connie to have to deal with this on her own. I would never have done it, the little voice in his head whispered.

  Seppe opened his mouth, then shut it again. He’d broach the subject after they’d chopped down a few trees; that always calmed her. They were working on spruce today, which was always preferable. It stained your hands less than the crazy bluish tinge you got from cutting down oak, and it made him less guilty. Felling oaks that had stood for generations felt like the ultimate betrayal of these understated foresters who were nothing but kind to him. It wasn’t the kind of thing he would ever dare say in camp, where Fredo or one of the other black-armbanders would find a way to punish him for sympathising with the enemy.

  ‘What’s up with this weather? Don’t it know it’s summer?’

  As they stabled the horse the first drops were falling. Before they knew it they were in the middle of a deluge. Plump raindrops bowled down, in a hurry to join the mud at their ankles. Connie’s hair plastered to her face and she stuck out her tongue to catch the drops, laughing, released by the downpour. But she was going to get drenched; they needed to get inside.

  Seppe looked around him. Had Gianni and his gang left up a tarpaulin by some miracle? No, only trees as far as the eye could see, even their burgeoning summer canopies not enough to withstand this downpour. He cursed, softly this time. But wait – that would work, over there.

  ‘Vieni. We shelter here.’

  The rain was thundering onto the boughs now; even if he yelled she’d never hear him over this. Instead he pointed at a huge yew whose trunk had split open years ago, probably even before the last war, to look at the regrowth. Branches criss-crossed in barbed arches above the splintered trunk, a cathedral of a tree.

  Connie came up so close he could feel her body outlining his, the heat coming off it, his arm against hers prickly with awareness of her warm flesh. She bellowed into his ear and with difficulty he pulled his attention to her words. ‘Under that? It won’t give much cover.’

  ‘No – inside. Come.’ Seppe squeezed past the florets of tiny twigs and leaves forming an archway into the ruined centre of the yew.

  ‘Here.’ He bent an errant sprig out of the way, flattened himself against the inner wall of the tree to make room for her. Here, inside the trunk, it was as if the rain had stopped, save for the pounding outside. Near the top, new branches had sprung up and across the split trunk, forming a vast protective canopy. Shiny emerald needles interwove above them to provide shelter.

  Connie slid down the inside of the trunk, knees bent, hands clasped low on her stomach. He sped down beside her, eyes wide.

  ‘Are you OK?’ There was no mistaking what he meant.

  Connie rested her head against the yew and met his eye.

  ‘I’m fine. Honest.’

  She wasn’t going to confess; it was up to him to persuade her to talk. She mattered, that’s what it came down to. She mattered, and he couldn’t let her struggle on alone any more. Seppe hadn’t realised he could feel like this about someone, that winning her trust would occupy him to such a great extent despite his own struggles in the camp. To care about someone only led to danger. On the surface Connie seemed exactly the sort of person who didn’t need anyone’s help. But Seppe recognised a carapace when he saw one, had spent too long constructing his own, and he longed to reach out. The prickliness concealed vulnerability and his heart ached for her whilst at the same time he admired her, this girl he had known only a few mon
ths now. He minded very much what happened to her.

  Seppe sat down beside Connie, the knowledge of what he must do next making him shiver. He put one palm on the clammy wood.

  ‘You know how I find this tree?’

  Connie blinked at the change of subject and shook her head. ‘No idea how anyone tells any of these trees apart.’

  ‘It isn’t to do with the tree.’ His mouth was gluey, not wanting to relinquish the words. ‘It is because of me. I can find hiding places.’

  ‘What are you, some kind of spy?’ Connie leaned her head against the damp wires of the internal roots. They smelled of earth and mould, a warm, oddly welcoming scent.

  ‘No, not spy.’

  Could he dare to say it aloud? The hissing of the rain outside the trunk was a thousand secrets being told. He pressed his finger against the soothing blade of the whittling knife. She needed a secret before she could tell a secret. He understood. He caught her gaze, held it, quelling the urge to look down, to focus on the knife.

  ‘My father – he is not a nice man. Very much not. He does bad things. All my life, since I can walk, I hide. Now it’s automatic to me. You, when you see a tree, you know this one is ready to fell, that one not yet. I look at the same trees, I can tell you which ones are good for hiding, which ones not.’

  ‘But your pa’s not going to get you out here, is he?’

  ‘In Campo 61 is a man from Livorno, he knows – he knows a bad thing my father has done, and he wants to make my life as hard as he can because this man, he is seeking vengeance on me. My father thinks me a coward, a collaborator; this is impermissible to him. And now he thinks I will spread bad words about him, so he will tell this man to make my life as bad as possible. He has done it before.’