Shelter

by Sarah Franklin

  She laid a hand against the trunk of the tree. The bark was mosaicked and lichen-covered – oak. Connie smiled ruefully in the dark at herself. The things she knew now!

  Her family was gone and there was no getting them back; but she had a new family in front of her. Now there was nothing to do but move forward, even if the view didn’t look as she’d hoped. She could do worse than Seppe. And anyway, the war might never end and they’d never be able to get wed. She eased her way through the whispering forest, her heart in her mouth and her will in her steps. Her future lay inside that cottage, and now it was time to go and face it.

  Re-Housing of Southern England

  The re-homing of Southern England has been a subject on which Miss Raeburn, in vividly descriptive speeches in which she gave graphic details of the horrors endured by the London people during the flying bomb menace, has been talking to Forest audiences, principally WVS and WIs, in the past week or two.

  Dean Forest Mercury, Friday 26th January, 1945

  1945

  Forty-Three

  January

  CONNIE PULLED THE BEDROOM door shut behind Joe and tiptoed out. They’d been felling old-growth at the furthermost edge of the forest this week, and she was dead on her feet. Christmas seemed like months ago, not a fortnight.

  Her sleep was shot at the moment, which didn’t help. Disloyal thoughts of her lost chance at a better life poked up through her dreams like the pea in the old fairy tale. The trees were closing in on her in this never-ending winter, the spaces between them darker and the way through less and less obvious with every step. Sometimes she had to blink hard and touch Seppe or Joe, feel the realness of the soft flesh of their necks beneath their thick coats.

  There was a knock on the door. Connie skidded down the rest of the steps and eased it open before it woke Joe back up. All her movements had got so gentle now Joe was here; nobody had told her that about babies.

  ‘Oh!’

  It was Mary, that local girl who was sweet on the chatty mate of Seppe’s. ‘Are you looking for Joyce? She’s next door.’

  Mary stepped from foot to foot. It was brass-monkey weather out there today; Connie’s hands had only just stopped stinging. ‘I’m here for you, actually.’

  ‘Oh! Um – right. Well, look, come on in out of the cold.’ She was whispering. She stepped away from the door and ushered Mary in.

  ‘Thank you.’ Now Mary was whispering, too. She was a pretty little thing; Connie could see why that Gianni had fallen for her.

  They stood facing each other in the narrow hallway as if preparing for a quickstep. Connie wasn’t sure what to do, it’d been so long since she’d spent time with any of the girls.

  ‘Are you all right to talk out here? Amos is in the kitchen – I don’t …’

  Mary shook her head quickly. ‘I won’t keep you long, like.’ She had the sort of smile that pulled a smile out of you in return.

  ‘Seppe told Gianni your news.’ Mary rummaged around in her handbag. ‘I wanted to – hang on a minute …’ She pulled out a battered lippy and a ball of string and passed them over to Connie.

  ‘My dad’s right; I could hide half the forest in here and be none the wiser. No – wait – here they are.’ Mary pulled a fat parcel of newspaper from her bag. ‘Have a look.’

  Connie unwrapped the parcel. At least it wasn’t some sodding dead animal. But this was almost more baffling.

  ‘Clothing coupons?’

  Mary’s smile this time had an underskirt of trepidation.

  ‘The thing is, Gianni and me, we’re hoping to get married too. My dad loves him and he’d be great behind the bar at the Bell.’ Mary straightened up against the wall.

  ‘What I was thinking was, we’re about the same size and shape, aren’t we? And a wedding dress – it’s going to cost a fair few bob. Gianni and me, we’re still a fair way off setting a date –’

  ‘So are we. The war’s not over yet.’ And there was the big question. Connie swallowed, forced herself to listen to Mary.

  ‘Right enough, but from what Seppe’s told Gianni –’ (what, exactly, had Seppe told Gianni?) ‘– you two will be first down the aisle. When the war’s over Gianni will want to try and get his mamma over and we’ll need to save for that. So we could pool our coupons, buy the one dress for more than maybe either of us could manage on our own?’

  Mary was all lit up; even in the gloom, her eyes were sparkling. Connie swallowed. That’s how she should be feeling about getting wed.

  ‘We could even take a trip to Gloucester or to Cheltenham, see if one of them big stores had something a bit fancier? But I want you to hold on to the coupons.’ That beam again. She was so happy, this girl. Connie had almost forgotten you could be this kind of carefree.

  Mary leaned in and palmed the coupons to Connie.

  ‘Here – you take ’em for now so you do know I mean it. No big rush, but when you’re ready you let me know and we’ll get travel permits sorted out, have a trip to the big city.’ She looked ready to explode with happiness. Connie’s heart sank, but she stuffed them in her overall pockets.

  ‘Dad’ll be needing me behind the bar. I’ll see you soon, shall I? It’s so nice to have someone to share all this with!’

  The front door shut behind Mary and Connie leaned against it, eyes closed. That’s how she should be, like Mary, all thrilled about marrying her Italian sweetheart. But all Connie could think of when Mary was babbling on about ‘big cities’ was her grand plans, now in tatters.

  Seppe must know she wasn’t sure, even if only by talking to Gianni and seeing how excited Mary was. She kicked one heel against the door, hard. Poor Seppe, knowing and not knowing. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t be keener?

  The coupons were lies in her pocket …

  She leaned her head on the door, trying to make sense of it all. She couldn’t go on like this. She’d make Seppe miserable as well as herself, to say nothing of Joe.

  The knocker banged again and she jumped a foot. What was that now? Connie cracked it open.

  ‘Joyce! What are you doing here? It’s like Piccadilly Circus round here this evening.’

  ‘Shh!’ Joyce had pressed herself up against the house wall as if she was a spy. The thought made Connie giggle.

  ‘Didn’t want to come round the back, give Amos cause to know something’s up.’

  ‘What is up, Joycie? I’m none the wiser myself, to be honest with you.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking and thinking about Christmas Day and what you said.’ Joyce palmed something small into Connie’s hand. But it wasn’t coupons this time.

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ Connie squinted. A piece of the Mercury. ‘“No lights on bicycles”? Joyce, that’s hardly cloak-and-dagger stuff. And I’ve told you, I don’t ever take that old boneshaker out; they ain’t going to get me.’

  Joyce shook her head and turned over Connie’s hand. ‘Not that, you ha’porth. This.’ She jabbed at something scrawled in the margin. ‘Didn’t have time to find a bit of paper. Just saw it in Frank’s papers now. He doesn’t know I’ve seen it, much less that I’ve shown it you. He’d do his nut.’

  ‘This’ was an address in London.

  ‘What you playing at, Joyce?’

  ‘Shh, keep your voice down! Look what it is.’

  ‘It’s some fancy war department in London, I can see that. So what?’

  ‘They’re looking for workers to help rebuild the big cities after all that bombing they’ve had. Seems a bit daft to be doing it in the middle of the war, but I suppose the people in the cities need somewhere to live and they can’t wait until the war’s stopped.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’ But Connie stood upright, peered again at the paper through the murk.

  ‘They need people who know heavy work, fitting joists and that, rebuilding houses. Wouldn’t be so different from timberwork, that’s why they sent it to Frank.’ Joyce rolled her eyes. ‘I expect they were after men, the dozy ha’porths, but you
work harder than half the men out there, Frank do tell me so.’ Joyce reached down and pulled a fag from her packet, staring straight ahead as she cupped her hands to light it.

  ‘Bloody hell, Joyce.’ Connie clenched the bit of paper so hard it almost ripped. She stuffed it in her pocket out of harm’s way and it rustled beside the coupons, one secret almost betraying another.

  Joyce tugged her sweater closer round her. ‘I’d better be off. Frank thought I was only popping out to the lav; he’ll be after me with the cod liver oil if I stay out here any longer.’

  ‘See you, Joycie. And Joyce …’

  Joyce laid a quick hand on Connie’s arm. ‘I know, lovie.’ And then she was gone, too.

  Connie belted up the stairs, her heart racing. The bedroom door swung open and she fell to her knees as if the air-raid siren had gone off. She stretched under the bed and groped around in the dark for her suitcase to hide the coupons and advert in, one eye on the cot to make sure Joe didn’t wake.

  She eased up the lid of the suitcase. That smell.

  Hillview Road was inside the case still, Mam’s Yardley and the talc from the littluns, even Dad’s brew. The only place they were left now.

  She slammed the suitcase shut, Joe momentarily forgotten, and gulped back some sense. Come on, Connie.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed, head pillowed on the battered leather of the suitcase. Through the floorboards rose the smell of the ash in the grate, the noise of Amos tapping his foot on the floor. Life would go on without her.

  Forty-Four

  ‘THIS NEW YEAR ISN’T bringing us any new food, then. 1945 will be the year of slop, just like 1944.’ Gianni pushed away his plate in mock disgust, but Seppe paid no attention. Gianni barely ever ate the camp food these days. He seemed to have most of his meals at Mary’s father’s pub, where rationing somehow didn’t come into things.

  ‘Don’t agitate yourself about your precious trees!’ he’d scoffed when Seppe had mentioned the risk of a blaze (there was no point asking where the bacon came from). ‘It’s so damp here you should be building us all an ark. My bacon is safe.’

  ‘If you’re not going to eat that, hand it over.’

  It was still odd to hear Fredo’s voice and not have the urge to cower. Fredo nodded at Seppe as he lifted Gianni’s food over Seppe’s head. Fredo without Livorno to fight for was a hawk whose wings had been clipped. These days he sought out Seppe, desperate to talk to someone from home, to keep home alive through conversation now that it existed only in his memory. Seppe could have these conversations only if the whittling knife and wood were firm and warm in his hand, acting as a conduit back to happier times with Renzo and a reminder that not every memory of Livorno was unbearable. Fredo, Seppe noted wryly, seemed oblivious to what it cost Seppe to have these conversations.

  Everything was changing, little by little. If only Connie seemed happier, he could say he’d found peace. Surely she was happy, now they knew for certain what their future would look like? He ignored the whispers in his head that encroached late at night, reminded him she’d never said this was the future she wanted.

  ‘This came for you.’ One of the kitchen team dropped something on Seppe’s plate and Gianni craned to look at it too.

  ‘A letter! Haven’t seen you with a letter for months – who’s writing to you?’

  ‘No idea.’ Seppe’s hands were steady as he opened it. His parents were dead. They had been well enough known for several residents of Livorno to make note; there had never been any possibility of doubt. For a month he had grieved for his mother, for the peace she had never known. But whatever else it contained, this letter held no terror.

  The paper rustled as he unfolded it, scanned to the end. ‘It’s from the padre.’

  ‘Ha! He’s found out about you and the inglesa,’ Gianni teased. ‘Hell will be upon you.’

  ‘Even the padre doesn’t have that much power!’ The words skittered as Seppe sped through the letter. He sagged back on the bench.

  ‘He has met with my brother-in-law. With Bruno.’

  ‘You have a sister? All these months and you’ve never told me that?’

  ‘She died.’ His breath remained steady. ‘Her husband’s been discharged; wounded. Bruno doesn’t manage his letters very well, so he’s been to see the padre, asked him to make contact.’ That wasn’t all the padre was saying, but Gianni didn’t need the rest. ‘I have noted that your father died in the bombings. I have explained to Bruno about Alessa. We prayed together,’ wrote the priest in a sentence that held a thousand stories. And towards the end, ‘Bruno sends his love, asks me to tell you that terrible things happen not only in war.’

  Seppe put the letter down and stared at it. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, bumped his knuckles on the whittling knife.

  ‘Eh, scalco! You all right?’

  ‘It’s OK. It’s good news.’ The padre had shared his father’s terrible secret with Bruno. It was no longer only his to carry. These tears were of relief. Of release.

  Tiny nodding snowbells signalled hope. Seppe kept his voice light.

  ‘No ring?’

  Connie concentrated on her lump of cheese. ‘No, not today. Must have taken it off to bath Joe last night and forgotten to put it back on.’

  She hadn’t worn it any day this week. He changed tack.

  ‘Is there a problem with the ring? It’s perhaps too big? You don’t like the trees?’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ She glanced up at him. ‘It’s gorgeous, honest. I just …’ Her sentence faded off and she tore a piece from her bread, offered it to Joe.

  ‘It’s because we’re working on the spruce today?’

  Now Connie was looking fully at him, puzzled.

  ‘They are so full of sap, the spruce. It’s sensible to not wear the ring.’

  ‘Yeah, it would be. It is. Don’t want to damage it.’

  He leaned back against the recently felled pine.

  ‘Have you thought any more about the wedding? We will do it here, I think, no? I can ask Frank about good churches; unless you have asked Joyce already?’

  Connie shrugged. ‘Nothing to think about, is there? Not ’til this war’s over and you’re no longer the enemy. We can’t get married yet, can we? Could be years still. No point in bothering Frank and Joyce about churches and all that malarkey.’

  ‘You’re right, perhaps. But I like to think about it, like to consider our life. As a family. And I know you love to dance, or used to at least. I thought you might have ideas for our celebration.’ He cupped her face in his hands and Connie stood up abruptly, brushing the crumbs off her greatcoat.

  ‘No time for daydreams, me. Too much to be getting on with.’ She looked over at Joe, trying and failing to scale the lumber. ‘Does he need a change? I can’t remember.’

  Seppe got up too. ‘The last change was before this tree came down. I’ll do him now.’

  ‘Cheers, Seppe. I’ll get checking, see which tree’s next to get down.’ So they were back on familiar territory. He heard Amos’s voice in his head. ‘Don’t go fretting about it.’ But he did.

  Forty-Five

  February

  HER SUITCASE WAS ALL ready on the bed; she’d packed most of it when the jumpers were boiling earlier. Time to get her skates on if she wanted to be gone before anyone arrived home. It might be mid February, but the days didn’t seem to be getting any longer, the trees sucking up what passed for light. Everyone would knock off work once this winter gloom got too much.

  Connie pulled a face at the tiny woollies draped over the range and the fireplace with bits of Amos’s twine that she’d found on the mantelpiece. How did Joyce do the wash for them all, week in week out, and stay so cheerful? Felling was a piece of cake compared to this. Connie’s gut had been right all along; she’d be hopeless at this kind of life. Her knuckles were bright pink from bashing the big wooden spoon against Joe’s clothes and frozen from the shock of the February cold after the boiling water. Her eyes streamed fro
m the viciousness of the carbolic. There was nothing on the box to say how much to use, so she’d chucked in a good dollop to be safe. She hadn’t been totally sure it was even the right box but she was trying her best. The clothes would end up all ashy, but she couldn’t risk anyone seeing them out on the line all at once.

  Connie grabbed a pullover and held it to her cheek. Dry enough. She carried it over to the kitchen table and laid it down, sleeves tucked underneath, then went back for another one. Soon there was a tidy pile on the table. Connie stepped back and looked at it for a moment. The smell of the carbolic wasn’t so bad now it was hidden a bit by the smoke of the range.

  Connie carried the pile upstairs. Joe was still asleep in his cot. She gently lowered the piles, flattening them so that they didn’t tip over. ‘Your clothes have never been this smart, isn’t that right, baby?’ she murmured in his direction. He threw up an arm, chasing rainbows in his sleep, and she smiled. ‘That’s a yes, then.’

  Connie looked back over at Joe and stepped towards the crib but then thought better of it. Amos and Seppe might have the golden touch with the baby, but she was the opposite. One last stroke from her and he’d be awake and screaming blue murder. She sniffed, but the blockage in her throat didn’t shift.

  She pulled another of Joe’s woollies from the drawer and shunted it shut with her hip. Thank God Joyce had knitted him so many. Connie laid it on top of the rest of the belongings already in the case, then snapped it shut and swung it to the ground. It was lighter than when she’d arrived months earlier.