Shelter

by Sarah Franklin

  ‘See you in the morning then.’

  Frank flicked a hand in her direction and was gone. She’d better hurry and get back to Seppe and the baby. It had been strange not to have been around either of them – her time in the forest was entirely circled by their joint presence and she’d felt lopped off but – how could she even think this? – brilliantly free. For an hour or so she’d just been Connie, not Connie who needed to keep Seppe on track with the felling, or Connie the girl who’d had the surprise baby, just Connie, like the Connie who used to sag off at the end of the shift to drink gin and gossip. She missed that Connie. But – and this shocked her to even realise – she’d missed being with Joe and Seppe too, even though it had been only so brief. She rolled her eyes. Make your mind up, Granger.

  Dusk was creeping in around the trees. Connie wasn’t bothered by the dark, not exactly, but the woods still spooked her at night, crackles and hoots and stuff slithering and shifting. It wasn’t like home, where you knew what was down each alley.

  Seppe and Joe were where she’d left them, sprawled out beside the hut. Seppe stood up as she panted closer, put one finger to his lips as if her breathing might wake Joe. He didn’t seem furious with her any more, at least. Seppe was lovely; whenever she saw him with Joe she remembered it and it made her want to be a better person, to match him.

  ‘It’s a right pig’s ear; the quotas are bigger than we thought. Due sooner, too. Frank’s going to need our help, and sharpish.’

  ‘But how? We are flat already.’ He was whispering as if he was a spy in the pictures, not a prisoner on the dirt beside a curled-up baby. Seppe had thrown his jacket over Joe as a blanket and the baby looked good enough to eat, like those tots you see in the Pears Soap magazine adverts. Maybe she could enter him for one of those ads … if she couldn’t have the life she’d hoped she could, at least Joe could have a better one.

  ‘Flat? Flat out, do you mean? We’ll have to get flatter, then. Frank’s in a right state; those London busybodies made out he was hopeless. I nearly lamped them.’

  When the suits had started in on Frank about ‘war effort’ and ‘surpassing demand’, Frank’s grazed knuckles had driven into the bark with the effort of not biting back. Connie had sent daggers of fury at the officials and their clean-fingered interfering. You couldn’t just plant another sapling and expect it to be ready in a year or two. Frank had shown her the regeneration plots, the way you needed to cross-plant to ensure the right foliage cover, the trees that would grow best in shade and those that didn’t need such deep taproot so could afford to be planted on less rich soil. Connie had wanted to drag these busybodies to the sawmill and feed them into the chipper, clipboards first, one by one until they packed it in.

  ‘They’re insisting on the new numbers by the end of the month. I can fix that. I can get down as many as we need, you know I can. If it was spruce I’d get on with it on my own. But the oaks take two of us, and it’s the oaks he needs.’ She flopped down beside him, bashed her knees on a root, sneezed again.

  ‘Connie, we can’t. We have too much to manage already. Frank won’t allow it.’

  ‘Course we can. I wasn’t going to ask Frank; I was going to tell him. There’s extra dosh in it too; piecework, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not for me.’ Oh, that was right – not for the POWs.

  ‘Well, then, do it for Frank. Do it for me.’ He was so close she grabbed at his lapel to make her point and he didn’t jump like he used to.

  A quiver came where she hadn’t had one for months. She paused, then looked at him again. He met her eyes, unflinching, and reached down for her hand. His touch was feather-light, then gone.

  She broke the gaze first.

  ‘I would help you, Connie. You know I would. But I worry about bringing Joe out for such long days.’

  ‘What are you on about? He’s happy as Larry out here, you know he is.’ The baby was snuggled into that bedspread, soft enough to make your heart break.

  ‘We’ve got to help Frank; look at all the chances he’s given us both.’ She yanked on Seppe’s lapel again but he was surprisingly strong and she ended up nearly rolling onto him. He smelt different, this close, less of the woods and more – more like a man. She could practically taste him.

  Pull yourself together, Connie. She needed to get a grip, convince Seppe to do the extra felling.

  And what a disaster it’d be, too, to have her end away with Seppe. He wasn’t the love ’em and leave ’em type; he’d probably end up thinking they needed to get wed.

  She drew away until she could concentrate again.

  ‘Don’t you see? If the quota people send someone down here to keep an eye on things, make sure Frank’s hitting the quotas, Joe and me’ll be sent back to the cottage out of the way. I’ve had it up to here with this war, Seppe, and these blokes in suits who are telling us what to do. Frank’s the only decent gaffer I’ve ever had.’ She’d forgotten all about keeping quiet now.

  ‘And there’s no way some officials from the capital are going to let you and Gianni and the rest of you wander round the forest the way you do now. You’ll be stuck back in that camp and you won’t see Joe nearly as often as you do now.’

  ‘You are right.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll do it with you.’ Even his voice was different today. Huskier. When had he turned into Humphrey Bogart?

  She was so close, and so relieved. Before she could think it through, she leaned forward and kissed him.

  Seppe tasted of the woods, of hard graft and capability; her lips curved against his in recognition. But he pulled away.

  ‘Connie! What are you –’

  ‘Shush.’ She brushed her lips against his, closed her eyes and rolled close into him, her arms up around his neck to pull him nearer. His breathing was raggedy too, now, and he didn’t pull away. It was so good to be doing something for her again, not something she had to do. She wriggled with the sheer joy of it, and he gasped and shifted underneath her so that she was practically on top of him, his arm firm against her back, holding her to him, his legs tangling with hers. That’s it. How to rid herself of these overalls? Not as easy as a skirt, that was for sure.

  She sat up, and he sat up with her, misunderstanding.

  ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right. We must stop. Joe …’

  ‘What? He’s sleeping.’ She tugged at Seppe’s sweater but he gently took her hands in his. Good grief, even his hands were sexy right now. He’d be sandpaper-rough against her skin. She leaned forward and kissed him again, properly kissed him. She’d missed this. Connie moaned slightly and reached forward to undo her dungarees, but he pulled away.

  ‘No – we can’t.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean we can’t? Of course we can. It’s only a bit of fun, for heaven’s sake.’

  These dungaree buckles were refusing to cooperate with her shaky fingers. ‘Give me a hand, would you?’

  They were lying facing each other, so close she could feel his breath hot and fast on her cheek.

  ‘Connie, no. We must stop. We can’t do this unless –’ Seppe refused to meet her gaze.

  ‘Unless what?’ The penny dropped. ‘Don’t get all hot under the collar – we don’t need anything. You can’t fall again when the baby’s still so young, everyone knows that.’ Beside her, Seppe flinched. Had she got it wrong, or was he horrified she was being so blunt? She had got it right, hadn’t she? Oh, who cared?

  She squirmed forwards into Seppe, her overalls working their way down her body and her flesh sparking as it met the roughness of his clothes. Seppe sighed deeply, took her by the shoulders, gently touched her cheek. He was surprisingly sinewy under that uniform, the skinniness of him hiding muscles she hadn’t given two thoughts to before.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure! Is that enough for you now?’

  She didn’t wait to hear his answer or check his reaction. Joe might wake up any minute and there was no more time to waste.

  Thirtyr />
  The War Office

  Whitehall

  SW1

  Date: October 14th, 1944

  Mr A. W. Jenkins

  Briar Cottage

  Lower Yorkley

  Glos

  Sir,

  I regret to have to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office to the effect that No. 973442 (Rank) Pte (Name) William Reginald Jenkins (Regiment) Infantry: Gloucestershire 2nd Battalion was posted as missing on the date unknown. The report that he is missing does not necessarily mean he has been killed, as he may be a prisoner of war or temporarily separated from his regiment. Official reports that men are prisoners of war take some time to reach this country, and if he has been captured by the enemy it is probable that unofficial news will reach you first. In that case I am to ask you to forward any postcard or letter received at once to this office and it will be returned to you as soon as possible. Should any further official information be received it will be at once communicated to you.

  Thirty-One

  AMOS HAD ONLY COME back to pick up a longer bit of twine, tie back some of the gorse. The damp was properly in the woods now and the sheep liked to take shelter in it, kept getting hooked up in it.

  The envelope sat there at the door, and he knew. Weren’t they supposed to hand deliver that kind of thing? Just as well the sheep had needed him.

  He whistled quietly for Bess and turned back into the forest, the letter stuffed into his pocket along with the twine. The ewes could wait.

  Amos pushed past a holly bush, brushed off its spikes. Droplets splattered him, tiny woodland tears. Nobody came down this way, not any more. Nobody could remember it how it was thirty-odd years ago when he’d first been here with his May, when they were courting.

  He slowed his pace, peering around. It was here somewhere – used to be beside an old stump. That could be the stump, there, covered in moss now, rotting a bit. He prodded his crook at it and an edge clumped off. Beetles scuttled and a woodlouse curled up against the exposure.

  Amos took another couple of steps forward. This had to be the right tree.

  He hadn’t been down here much these past years. Used to bring Billy at first, after – when Billy was out of the hospital and well enough to be carried around. The house had been full and topsy-turvy. The aroma of the wrong cooking, where it should have been May’s, the clamour of the wrong voices. Well-meaning enough, they all were, but the house shouted of her being gone. Down here by the tree it was still just him and May, so Amos brought the boy down to feel that for himself. Fanciful nonsense it had been, Amos knew that, but who’s to say it didn’t work, blanketing the boy in memories of his mother the same way Amos would shroud an orphaned lamb with the fleece of a stillborn one to make sure it bonded with the mother and thrived. But he’d stopped that as soon as the boy came old enough to go about on his own.

  Amos pushed in amongst the branches until they almost held him in an embrace. The boughs dipped down in places, almost to the ground, their weight nearly too much to bear.

  This was the spot, right here, where he’d asked May to marry him. Down on his knees amongst the rich arrows of the fallen yew leaves, air full of the spice of the prickles; and May, he could see her now, pushing her hair out of her face, eyes saying everything he needed to know. They’d brought Billy down here when he was a nipper, let him crawl around on the leaves. Billy’s giggles used to set May off; she’d lean against Amos, finding it hard to catch her breath. May should be here with him now, not all these years dead. He’d think he’d got used to it and then it would trip him up like a crook round the ankles.

  ‘Oh, May. Billy’s gone.’

  He groaned, anguish spearing him, and leaned his head against the bark, the furrows of his skin mapping to its grooves. Why hadn’t he written sooner? Now Billy was gone, most likely dead, and Amos had been stupid and stubborn. He’d been all alone out there. Amos had failed him.

  Thirty-Two

  November

  ‘THREE MONTHS OLD ALREADY!’ Joyce hoisted a beaming Joe onto one hip. ‘Hard to credit, ent it?’

  Connie followed Joyce into the kitchen, shoving her hair into a ponytail.

  ‘Right, let’s make a brew, shall we, little man?’ Joyce brandished the pan at Joe and he giggled, grabbing for the handle.

  ‘Um – not to be rude or anything, Joycie, but I need to get a move on. Seppe and I are pulling these extra shifts and it’ll only get done if we work all the daylight hours.’ The rain was rattling against the windows, which meant it was going to be wet and blowy out there today and the clouds would be shifting, the woods extra gloomy. Better to get cracking. If Connie had her way, they’d have worked during dusk and dawn too, but Frank had put his foot down. ‘Them Timber Production chaps might be daft enough to up the quotas just as we move into the shorter days, but I ent daft enough to have you working in the dark.’

  ‘I know that, my love.’ Joyce made a big show of putting a bib on Joe, reaching behind him to tie the bow. ‘You’ve made the world of difference to my Frank this last week. He’s lighter on his feet and I even heard him whistling again yesterday. I reckon I can take care of our Joe for a bit whilst you’re helping Frank, especially in this downpour. Seems only fair.’ She joggled Joe and he giggled again.

  Connie just needed her boots and her coat. Her hands were chafed to buggery with all this wet weather, but what did it matter?

  ‘Cheers, Joyce. I didn’t know how I was going to get it all done this week. I thought Amos might be around a bit more, but he’s been out at all hours, muttering to those sheep of his, I suppose.’

  Joyce busied herself with Joe again. ‘You’re doing fine, Connie. I wouldn’t worry about Amos.’

  ‘But I am, Joyce. He’s barely here, and when he is he hardly gives me the time of day, just stares out the window at the oaks. I was awake half the night trying to work out what we’d do if he kicked us out.’

  Joyce looked off into the distance as if weighing the truth against loyalty. The rain hammered into the silence, insistent.

  ‘Amos would never kick you out, and you know he’s dotty about our Joe. But he’s got a lot on his plate right now.’

  The cuckoo clock on the chimney breast sang the half hour. Seppe was going to start wondering where on earth she was. Connie twisted her hands together, chilblains stinging.

  ‘What do you mean? What’s happened to Amos? Joyce, tell me!’

  Were those tears in Joyce’s eyes? Connie’s hands were sticky with sweat.

  ‘What is it, Joycie? You’re scaring me now.’

  Joyce took a big sigh and Joe’s hair fluttered. ‘It’s Billy. Amos got a telegram a few weeks ago and there hasn’t been a peep since. We can only imagine that Billy’s done for.’

  Connie’s eyes prickled. ‘Oh, blimey. Poor, poor Amos. He should have said something.’

  ‘You know Amos, love.’

  Connie tussled with whether to say it, but this wasn’t a time for shirking the truth, not if they’d got a telegram. ‘Where was Amos’s boy – Germany? The fighting seems to have got worse, not better, since the Yanks did that big push.’

  She put a hand on Joyce’s arm. ‘You must be worried sick too. I know you’ve always had a soft spot for him.’

  Joyce dabbed her eyes with the corner of Joe’s cardi.

  ‘It’s just not knowing what’s happened to him. And you’re right, love. It’s not looking good. It’ll do for Amos if his Billy doesn’t come back neither. You didn’t want to see him after his May died; enough to break your heart, that was.’

  Connie was stricken. ‘I’m sorry, Joyce. I wouldn’t have said a word if –’

  ‘I know that, lovie. But careful with Amos, all right?’

  Connie nodded, looked Joyce in the eye. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for him, Joyce. And no news is good news, right?’

  Joyce’s smile was more subdued than usual, but it came. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  Connie shrugged on her coat and bent to give
Joe a kiss. Impulsively she hugged Joyce, too. ‘I’m sorry, Joyce. It’s bloody horrible, this war, isn’t it?’

  Seppe had started clearing the brush when she arrived at the stand of oak, out of breath.

  ‘Sorry!’ She pushed straggles of hair back under her hat, reached up and kissed him on the nose, and looked around for her axe. Whacking the axe at something was just what she needed now to shake off this bloody nasty war. She imagined Amos, tramping through the bracken, his mind veering down the path of his missing son, like it or not. Christ, it just wasn’t fair.

  ‘Where’s Joe?’

  Connie blinked hard and got Seppe into sight. Enough of this.

  ‘Joyce has got him, said she’ll help out while we do this. Kind of her, wasn’t it?’

  Seppe came in closer to her and put one arm around her waist, a question mark. ‘Very kind. So this means we have time without Joe?’

  Those brown eyes were doing a number on Connie again. With an effort she pulled away, splashed one boot at him. ‘Look at the state of this bog! You’ve got to be joking. And we’ve got work to be getting on with!’

  Work was the only salvation she knew. And right now she needed to work hard enough to forget for the lot of them.

  Thirty-Three

  SEPPE SHIFTED THE WICKER basket to the crook of his arm and pushed down on the door handle, warmed by this low sun. Joyce had said he should go right on in when he’d knocked next door to enlist her help.

  As he placed the basket in a shaft of sunlight on Amos’s table, there was a clatter of footsteps down the stairs and Connie appeared in the kitchen doorway, Joe pinned up against her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, it’s you! I thought I heard the door go.’

  He turned down the corners of his mouth and faked sorrow. ‘Were you expecting someone else?’