Shelter

by Sarah Franklin

  One last thing to do. She pulled the letter from the pocket of her overalls. It had got damp from the laundry and bits of woodchip had stuck to it. The ink had run a bit but you could still make out the curve of the S.

  She propped it up next to Joe’s bottle. It slid down so she propped it back up with fingers that had started to tremble and grabbed her suitcase.

  The baby grunted and snuffled, finding his way into his dreams and her arms ached to pick him back up and give him one more cuddle. If only she didn’t love him as much as she did. If only she could close off the bit of her that loved him, the way she could with Mam and them, find a way to get through life without the loss swallowing her. But this was the best way. They’d all come round, given time.

  Connie left the room, took the stairs as quickly as she could. Her socks were all wet from the washing; she slipped, grabbing the banister before she came a cropper. The suitcase crashed down into the hall, banging against the wall as it went.

  Behind Connie, Joe began to wail. She sat down on the stair and rested her head on the newel post. He’d calm down in a minute and then she could go.

  But he didn’t stop. The noise must have really scared him. She pushed her hands on her thighs and heaved her way back up the stairs. The baby frowned at her through his wails and she swallowed hard as she picked him up.

  ‘Come on, babba. It was just a bit of noise. Not as loud as the trees coming down, was it?’ She rocked him and the crying became less panicked. Come on, baby, come on. How was it possible to so badly want to make it all better for him and at the same time want to scream in frustration? Connie placed Joe gently back in the cot and tiptoed towards the door. She didn’t dare look back this time.

  Before she’d got halfway there, he was roaring again. She didn’t know whether to cry or scream. How many times – how many, many times had he done this? She loved him so, so much but right now it was taking all she had to unclench her fists and not shriek at him, the guilt sharpening every emotion, slicing through her.

  ‘Oh, little one, it’ll be all right, you’ll see.’ What if she walked him round a bit? ‘Look out there – see all the birds on the trees? You’ll know all their names soon enough if Amos has his way. He’ll look after you, you know that, babba, don’t you? And Seppe. Seppe’s a good man. Don’t you ever think me leaving like this has anything to do with him. Or with you – you mustn’t ever think that. But I have to try. I have to find out what my life could be like, and we’re both better off in our own place. This is where you belong, with the trees and the sheep and the people you’ve known all your life. Me, I need noise and strangers and situations that change. Those are terrible things for a kid, I know that much, and when you’re bigger you’ll know it too. London’s no place for a baby, not even in peacetime, and you’ve never known peacetime, my little man. You’re in good hands here – the best. There’s nobody kinder than Amos, don’t let him fool you. And Seppe …’

  Connie stopped, dug in her coat pocket for her handkerchief. Just as well she’d kept it close by. She scrubbed at her eyes and sniffed. Joe batted at her wet cheeks and she clasped his hand in hers.

  ‘Mam would have understood – your nanny – she always told me I was a wanderer. Maybe you’ll grow up to be a wanderer too, my little Forest baby, eh? Then you’ll understand.’

  He’d quietened right down as if he was listening to her. She should put him back in the crib now and get on with it, but how could she? These were the good times, the times it all seemed almost worth it, when he was warm and snuggly and gazing up at her as if she was the only person in the world who cared about him. When he was quiet and she had him to herself and she could allow herself to think, I made him. He’s mine, the only person who will ever really know me now. In these moments, nothing else mattered.

  ‘You’re a fierce little thing too, aren’t you, my love? You’ll understand better than most, once you’re old enough. But don’t you ever think it was because of you, or because of any of them. It’s because of me. I’m just not any good at this and I need to get out of here before I wreck things for you and for Seppe too.

  ‘I’ve got to go now, my love, or I’ll miss my train. But I love you.’ She’d never said that to anyone before. She never would again, now she knew how much it hurt.

  Joe was properly calm again now, gurgling, his thumb firmly in his mouth, three fingers curled over his little button nose. As Connie bent down and placed him back in the crib, the envelope with its laundry-soaked writing caught her eye. She stretched across and grabbed it, stuffed it back into her pocket. What could a letter possibly explain? It would only make things worse. Writing would be a cop out. It might make her feel better in the short term, but it would hardly do poor Seppe much good to read the damn thing. She was going to break his heart and that was a terrible, terrible thing; she couldn’t draw it out with any hope a letter might bring. She needed to shoulder this guilt as if it was the trunk of an oak, not try to lop bits off it and wait for Seppe to let her off the hook. In time, when she was settled, she could write to the baby and explain it all to him.

  She was careful on the stairs this time, hanging on to the rail the whole way down. She stuffed her feet into her boots, picked up the case and eased the door shut behind her. Upstairs, Joe slept on.

  Forty-Six

  AMOS HAD SPENT A good two hours hunting for the ewes in the frost, bitter even for February. The daffs were pushing up valiantly through mostly frozen ground but he’d lose a couple of ewes in this cold snap, no doubt about it.

  By the time he came upon them huddled beside the bridge arch near Soudley Ponds, his fingers stung with cold and he had to stamp his feet to feel them again.

  ‘May as well go home for our bread, eh, Bess?’

  When they reached the edge of the oaks, Amos stopped and examined the garden wall. The old stones had finally slipped completely in this cold snap. Might not be a bad idea to do away with a few of them instead of repairing it, maybe put in a gate out to that hut of Seppe’s, now that it was almost ready to live in. Be easier than hauling the baby over the drystones every time.

  Bess had gone on ahead and was barking at the kitchen door like she was fit to burst, throwing herself at it in her efforts to get in.

  ‘What’s the matter, old girl?’ Had Connie left the door open when she went off to work this morning and a fox slipped in or summat? But if the door was open, Bess would have no trouble getting in herself. Better get up there and find out.

  He wasn’t more than halfway past the apple trees when he heard the racket over Bess’s yelps. It was Joe, wailing worse than a trapped lamb. Amos was in the house and up the stairs as fast as he could manage, following the commotion into Connie’s room.

  ‘All right, my boy, all right. I’ve got you.’ Joe was wriggling in his arms, pink and raging, his pullover soaked. That wasn’t the only part of him that was soaked and more too, judging by the stink.

  Where was Connie?

  ‘Don’t you worry, old butt. It ent the work of a minute to sort you out. Then we’ll get you downstairs, give you some milk. You must be starving.’

  Joe settled down all right as soon as he’d had a bottle. Where had Connie got to? Had she gone noseying around in the parlour again, passed out after one too many sneaky swigs from May’s bottle?

  Amos pushed open the parlour door. This room still bore traces of absences, of May and of the things he’d sold to try and save her. Even now he couldn’t step foot into it without the gaps of loneliness hitting him. The bottle of liquor wasn’t all the way empty, but it wasn’t far off. And there was something glinting beside it.

  It was a ring: silvery, with gemstones of some kind, and trees etched into the silver.

  Amos stood where he was and considered the ring. Foreboding drifted onto the sorrow he felt constantly about his Billy. This didn’t augar well, not at all well. And it would fall to him to break it to Seppe, looks of things.

  ‘Come on, little one.’ He hoisted Joe onto his s
houlder. The babby was all snuggly and heavy, felt like he might drop off. ‘Time to go and find Seppe.’

  Seppe saw Amos crunching his way towards him on the frozen leaves, Joe drooped over his shoulder, and dropped the axe.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘Nowt, he’s just dropped off, that’s all. It’s our Con I’m out here for. She left him at home and that ent like her.’

  Oh, Connie. Seppe’s body relaxed in shameful relief. ‘She didn’t arrive this morning. She said yesterday that she might be a bit late, but she didn’t say why. Sometimes with Connie I do not ask.’

  But she should be here by now, and she hadn’t mentioned leaving Joe at the cottage. Worry was icing his blood again, along with shame. Seppe wrapped the blade in the tarpaulin, wiped his hands on his overalls to get rid of the sap from the softwoods, which had oozed through his gloves. Something had happened to Connie and he hadn’t even noticed.

  ‘How’s she been with you these last few weeks?’

  ‘You know. Like Connie.’ But quieter and crosser. Like Connie with the sap leached out. Seppe fiddled with the tarpaulin. Two evenings ago he’d run his finger along the down on her neck as she twisted her hair into her beret and she’d pushed his hand away, stared at him as if she was about to say something but then hadn’t. It was this that had struck him the most keenly. He’d tried to put it out of his mind since then.

  ‘Actually, not so much like Connie. But I thought, perhaps it is her getting used to marrying.’ She had turned away, shaking her head when he’d asked what the matter was.

  ‘Aye; she’s been a darn sight less chopsy in the house, too. You know anything about this, then?’ Seppe leaned forward. Amos was holding out a ring. Connie’s ring. His ring.

  He scrambled, pulse instantly racing.

  ‘Perhaps she took it off to do the dishes, forgot to put it back on?’

  Amos half laughed. ‘Our Con, do the dishes?’

  Amos paused. This was never good news. Seppe saw doubt and his worry amplified.

  ‘I’ll find Joyce. She must know where Connie’s gone.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ But Amos’s tone was gentle, and Amos waited until Seppe had stuffed the bundle of tools under his arm before setting off back down the path. Why was he being so solicitous? What did Amos suspect? Seppe’s heart hammered faster than the woodpecker in spring.

  Over Amos’s shoulder, Joe beamed at Seppe, stretched out his fingers. Seppe hoisted the tools more securely and reached out for Joe’s hand. Surely nothing bad could come of today. He couldn’t let himself think it.

  ‘No sign of Joyce, nor Connie.’ Amos rounded the corner from Joyce’s front door and came back to them in the garden, stamping his feet.

  ‘Maybe they are somewhere together? They have gone to the cinema, perhaps?’ Seppe’s heart banged against his ribs. Behind them, a buzzard called, the sound hooping and looping.

  ‘Do you think that girl would nip off to the pictures when she had trees to get down?’ Amos smiled, but there was nothing to smile about. ‘And it do be Thursday, don’t it? Joyce’ll be up the butchers no doubt, gassing for hours. Nowt for it then but to check our Con’s room.’

  ‘But you have done this already, no?’

  ‘Not to look for her. To see what’s gone.’ Amos held Seppe’s gaze. ‘I don’t think she’s just popped out to the shops, lad, and I don’t think you do either, not really.’

  Amos wouldn’t dream of going anywhere near Connie’s belongings unless he had real cause for concern. Seppe’s feet were leaden on the stairs.

  Upstairs in Connie’s – Billy’s – room, Amos pushed open the window, seemingly oblivious to the temperature – ‘better get some fresh air on us’ – and Seppe smiled despite himself. Connie always complained about Amos’s habit of letting air into every room. ‘Even when it’s freezing out there! How can he think it actually does you any good?’ But she wasn’t here to protest now, that much was clear.

  Amos put Joe down and bent down to look under the bed, hands on knees. ‘Have a look in the closet, will you, boy? Soon find out what’s what.’

  ‘We should wait and see if she is back at teatime?’ It was hollow. He felt sick with the impending truth.

  ‘Look, if she do show up for her vittals, we’ll tell her we was worried about her. She’ll see the sense in that. But standing around doing nowt only gets us nowhere fast.’

  There was no hiding from Amos’s frankness. Seppe pulled open the closet door, bracing one hand on the frame to tug it open. How had Connie put up with that all these months? His fingers clenched for the plane, lying downstairs in the roll of tools.

  The closet was confusing, the single rail within barely bothered by clothes. An old navy sweater, worried away at the cuffs, a pair of working trousers, clean and pressed but faded still. A man’s clothes.

  ‘I’m – I …’ He pointed.

  Amos, bent down to check under the bed, glanced up. ‘Billy’s.’

  ‘Then there is nothing of Connie’s in here.’

  Amos pushed back upright, leaning on the bed. ‘Her suitcase has gone, too. But there’s letters or summat stuck under here that might give us a clue. Give us a hand with the bed, lad.’

  Seppe’s mouth was sour, hollow panic creeping in, but he stepped forward and heaved at a corner of the mattress. Connie must have written him a note to explain where she was, and it had slipped under here. She wouldn’t leave him, not in the middle of their plans, however ambivalent about them she might be. He knew her better than that. She’d have said something. The thoughts flurried, a chaos of autumn leaves. The mattress slipped as his hand shook and his thumb got trapped against the bedstead. ‘Cazzo!’ He sucked on it, furiously, but the pain only intensified. He had to try again. There must be a clue here somewhere that they were missing. What Amos wasn’t saying pulsed in Seppe and he needed proof, needed it right now, needed to know that Connie was somewhere safe and coming back later. Needed proof that she loved him and she hadn’t left him. Needed proof that he was worthwhile.

  The mattress was heavier than it looked, and thicker than any Seppe had seen for years. Even the weight of this against his shoulder made his back twinge with the memory of the hard slats of his bunk through the breath-thin matting. He peered from under it, the weight and the worry building.

  ‘You’re all right there, Seppe, you can drop that now. I’ve got ’em.’ Amos backed out and showed Seppe the blue envelopes, crumpled and grimy. Seppe subsided onto the bed, anchoring Joe in his lap.

  Outside, the buzzard called again, boasting, and was answered by the naked rustle of the branches. A twig tapped on the window as if it knew the answer.

  Amos perched on the edge of the bed. Joe cooed at him and Amos put a hand out and ruffled his hair without looking, distracted. He placed the letters down as if they were unexploded bombs. The whittling blade was cool and reassuring against the ball of Seppe’s thumb, his breath coming hard and fast. One of those envelopes would be for him; a clarification of her absence, a reminder of a forgotten conversation that explained her going away temporarily.

  ‘Best get on with it, then.’ The envelope shivered in Amos’s papery fingers. Seppe flicked through them one by one, his shoulders hunching as he progressed. Three different names, all going to the same address in Coventry.

  And one to a Don someone. He passed the last one back to Amos, head down, ashamed. He was stupid to think she’d written to him. Joe shifted in his lap.

  ‘I can’t open them.’ He couldn’t bear it. She hadn’t left him any note, but she had written to those little sisters of hers, and the smallest one couldn’t even read. She had been desperate to talk to someone – anyone – but not to him. And he’d thought they were becoming intimate.

  Jealousy stabbed Seppe, chased away by humiliation. Whatever those envelopes held, they would only make things worse now.

  ‘You can still open them, son.’ Amos held it out to Seppe but he sho
ok his head, turned away.

  ‘You do it.’

  ‘Summat she meant to send, by the looks of it.’ So that was what Connie’s writing looked like – a careful hand, but slanted as if written by someone in a tearing hurry. He smiled before being drawn into the words themselves.

  73 Hillview Road

  Coventry

  25th August, 1944

  Dear Mam,

  Congratulations – you’re a granny! Baby Joseph William was born right in the middle of August. Don’t have a go at me, will you?

  After that night when I told you I’d be home and then wasn’t – after that and then a bit – I joined this thing called the Women’s Timber Corps. I’m in the middle of a forest down near Bristol. It’s the arse end of nowhere but it’s safe. No doodle bugs, no sirens. Too safe, tell you the truth. Nothing going on.

  The work’s top notch. I took to it right away and I’m good at it. Damn good at it, actually, and nobody’s more surprised than me to hear me saying that.

  It’s more than I can say about my baby-raising skills. I wish I’d known how hard it was. I’d have helped you out more, mithered less about minding the littluns.

  I miss you, Mam. I miss you all so much. Even Pa, sometimes. And Babs and Linda – I miss them kicking and squirming around in the bed at night. Just as well Joe don’t leave me much time for kip, eh?

  I wish I could know you’ve forgiven me for not coming home that night and leaving you in a bind. I wish you were here to tell me how to do this. I’m sorry, Mam.

  Give those ragamuffins a hug and a kiss from their big sister,

  TTFN,

  Connie

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed.’ Amos balled his hands.

  Seppe pulled Joe closer to him. The baby smelled of warm oblivion.

  ‘I think this is written after her family is killed.’ He’d tried again to talk to Connie about her family after they’d agreed to get married (had that really been what they’d agreed? Already it seemed so improbable). Connie had withdrawn, arms crossed over her body, and he had left it alone. Families weren’t always good news.