Jenny's War (4 page)

Heavy-eyed and feeling as if she’d only been asleep for a few minutes, Jenny woke to the sound of Miss Chisholm’s voice and her clapping hands. ‘Rise and shine. Come along, children. Time to get up.’

The children washed hurriedly in the school’s cloakroom and Mrs Clark and two other ladies served them porridge and a drink of weak tea on the tables the boys had set up again. When they’d all finished, the long trestle tables were set to one side of the hall and the children stood in rows facing Mr Tomkins. The three ladies, who had served breakfast, went down the line handing a paper bag to each child.

‘These are provisions for you to give to your foster mother,’ Mrs Clark explained. Inside each bag was a tin of meat, a bottle of milk, some biscuits and a bar of chocolate. One or two of the children grinned cheekily; the bar of chocolate would never reach their foster parents. Mrs Clark, intercepting some of the glances between the children, merely smiled to herself and made no attempt to remind them that the goodies were not for them. Poor little mites, she was thinking.

When all the bags had been handed out, Mr Tomkins cleared his throat. ‘Now, children, you are to be billeted with people in the town. We’ll try to keep families together where possible, so if you’d stand in rows on either side of the hall, the people who’ve volunteered to take you in will be here at ten o’clock and will make their choices.’

‘You mean we’re going to be picked?’ Billy piped up. ‘Like at the Battersea Dogs Home when folks choose a stray?’

Mr Tomkins blinked. ‘Er, well, not quite like that, I hope. You’ll find that the local farmers will want strong lads like you, young man,’ he added with a smile. ‘And the girls will be able to help in the house. Now, I’m sure you’ll all be good children and grateful to the people who are going to take you into their homes.’

‘Huh!’ Billy muttered, so that only those closest to him could hear. ‘Sounds like cheap labour for ’em to me. Bed and board and a lot of hard work, that’s what we’re in for.’

‘But you’ll be going to school too, of course,’ Mr Tomkins went on a little nervously. He and his wife had no children and confronted with these raggedy, solemn-faced youngsters, poor Mr Tomkins was out of his depth. He turned towards Miss Chisholm. ‘Will you be staying to take your own class?’

‘Only for a day or so to see them settled in. We have to return home. Not all the children in our school have been evacuated and those left behind still need teaching.’

Mr Tomkins nodded. ‘I just wondered. I’ve been told we’re to expect a further batch of children tomorrow, so the school won’t be able to cope with such a number all attending at the same time. We’ll have to work out some sort of rota for attendance.’

At his words, Jenny pushed her way to the front. ‘Another train coming tomorrow? Will it be Bobby’s train, Miss? Will Bobby be coming here?’

Miss Chisholm looked down at the grubby little girl with pity. Gently, she said, ‘I don’t expect so, Jenny. Bobby and the rest will already have arrived wherever they’re going.’

Jenny’s face fell.

The children stood waiting, not knowing quite what was expected of them and wondering what was going to happen next.

At three minute past ten the first of the locals arrived. A farmer followed by his wife strode into the hall and down the length of the lines of children. Billy was the first to be picked.

‘You look a good, strong lad.’ The farmer smiled. ‘A’ ya coming to work for me? You’ll be well fed.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘My missis is a good cook and there’ll be plenty of food on my farm, no matter what shortages are going to happen. What d’ya say, lad?’

Billy blinked. He couldn’t understand every word the man had said. The farmer’s accent was unfamiliar, but he caught the gist of the man’s meaning. ‘Just me?’ he asked.

‘Ah well, now, I could do wi’ two, ’cos one of my lads ses he’ll be volunteering for the army if there is a war. And if there isn’t, well, you lot’ll all be going back home, won’t you? So no harm done, eh?’

He seemed a chatty, friendly man, dressed in sturdy hobnailed boots, corduroy trousers with his shirtsleeves rolled up under a black, unbuttoned waistcoat. His cap, which he’d removed on entering the room, was now twirling between his work-callused fingers. Behind him his plump wife with brown curly hair, liberally flecked with grey, smiled kindly. Billy took a step towards him, emboldened to ask, ‘You won’t beat us, will yer, mister?’

A silence fell over the room as the man and the young boy regarded each other. Billy saw a friendly man, jovial at the moment, but the boy’s eyes had alighted on the wide leather belt around the man’s waist. The farmer saw a tall lad, too thin for his height. Good food and a healthy, outdoor life would soon build the youngster up, he thought. But the boy’s question had startled him and now he looked closer he could see that though the lad gave an outward show of bravado, there was something in his eyes that belied the swagger. There was a fear and an experience of things that a youngster of his age should not have known.

Miss Chisholm held her breath and Mr Tomkins frowned. She was about to step forward when the farmer held out his hand and said, more gently now, ‘Me name’s Joe Warren of Purslane Farm, young ’un, and this is my wife, Peggy. And no, I don’t beat my workers or guests in my home. In fact, I don’t reckon I’ve ever beaten anyone in me life, not even me own lads. Mebbe the odd smack on the back of the legs when they was young. Scallywags, they were, at times.’ He’d seen Billy’s gaze on his belt and now Joe forced a laugh as he touched it and added, ‘But this is just to hold me trousers up.’

The tension in the room eased and one or two children giggled nervously. They’d never have dared to voice such a question, yet it had been in the back of some of their minds. Just how were these strangers going to treat them?

Now, without any hesitation, Billy put his hand into the farmer’s and said, ‘Billy Harrington. I’d be pleased to come with yer, guv’nor.’

Miss Chisholm sighed with relief. Billy was a ringleader amongst his peers and if he led the way with his polite acceptance of the man’s offer, then others would follow his example.

‘A’ ya got a brother to come wi’ ya?’ Joe Warren asked.

Billy blinked, trying to work out what the man had asked. ‘No, I’ve no brothers or sisters. There’s only – only Dad and me. Me muvver’s dead.’

Joe nodded. ‘I’m sorry, lad. Yar dad’ll likely miss ya.’

Billy shrugged dismissively and the farmer could see that whatever the father was feeling, the son certainly wasn’t going to miss his home. Joe turned and raised his eyebrows to his wife. She gave a little nod and moved forward. ‘We can take two, Joe.’ Peggy Warren spoke in a soft, gentle voice. ‘Perhaps Billy would like a friend – someone he knows – to come along with him.’

‘My best friend’s Frankie Mills.’ Billy pointed to a boy standing at the back of the group of children. ‘But he’s lame, guv’nor. He had polio when he was little and he has to wear a leg iron.’ He beckoned to the boy. ‘Come and meet Mr Warren, Frankie.’

The farmer looked down doubtfully as the children parted to let Frankie through to the front. He limped forward, his leg iron clanking on the wooden floor. Peggy touched her husband’s arm and whispered, ‘We’ll take him, Joe. We’ll look after him. There’ll be little jobs he can do. Best to let friends stay together. They’ll likely settle better.’

‘Aye, aye, you’re right, Peg. We’ll look after ’em both. Come along, you two. Let’s get you home.’

He put his arm around Billy’s shoulders and held out his hand to Frankie. He glanced across the room at Mr Tomkins, who was busily writing down the details of the first placement on his clipboard. ‘Thank’ee, Mester Tomkins.’

Mr Tomkins looked up and nodded. ‘I’ll be along in a day or so to see how things are.’

‘You’ll be welcome any time, Mr Tomkins, but you’ve no need to worry about these two. They’ll be fine with me and the missis.’

Lucky Billy, Jenny thought, as she watched the two boys leaving with the farmer and his wife. Bet I don’t get anyone as nice as them.

More folk were coming into the hall and moving down the lines of children. More choices were made and soon there were only three left without a billet. Jenny was one of them. She was standing alone now. The other children had moved away from the girl whose coat still reeked of vomit, whose hair was lank and greasy and who kept scratching her head every so often.

The other two were picked and led away and now there was only Jenny left. Mr Tomkins conferred with Miss Chisholm in whispers, but Jenny’s sharp ears picked up every word.

‘I’ve only one place left for yesterday’s arrivals,’ Mr Tomkins said. ‘The two Miss Listers,’ he glanced worriedly at Jenny, ‘but I don’t think . . .’

‘She’s a good child really, given a bit of understanding. Nothing that a good bath and a change of clothes won’t sort out.’

‘Mm.’ Mr Tomkins was still doubtful. ‘Well, it’ll just have to do. There’s nowhere else at the moment and with another batch due tomorrow . . .’

The three of them walked along the street. Jenny slipped her hand into Miss Chisholm’s. It wasn’t something she’d normally do. You just didn’t hold your teacher’s hand, but the girl couldn’t remember ever feeling so fearful. She’d never felt so lost and alone in her life; not even when she’d been shut in her bedroom for hours on end away from her mother and whatever ‘uncle’ was visiting. She’d always known that Aunty Elsie and Bobby were just next door. But now . . .

‘Here we are.’ Mr Tomkins stopped in front of a small cottage with a thatched roof. The door opened straight on to the road and white net curtains veiled the front windows. Dark green ivy covered most of the wall. It was very quiet, with no sign of life except for a tiny wisp of smoke curling up from one of the chimneys. They seemed to wait an age before anyone came in answer to his knock. Then they heard a shuffling behind the door and it creaked a little way open.

‘We don’t use this door, Mr Tomkins. Please go round to the back. My sister is waiting for you.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Lister. Of course. I do beg your pardon.’

The door closed and Mr Tomkins cast his eyes heavenwards before gesturing them to follow him down the side of the house, through a dilapidated gate and into a backyard, beyond which was a small, badly overgrown garden, the flowers choked with weeds.

‘What a shame!’ Miss Chisholm murmured.

‘The Miss Listers are too old now to manage gardening.’

‘Are you sure they’ll be able to manage a child?’

Doubt crossed Mr Tomkins’s face. ‘I hope so. They want to “do their bit”, as they’ve put it. They lost two nephews – young men who were very dear to them – in the last war and they’re appalled that it’s all going to start again. They do have a young girl living with them – a maid. No doubt she’ll look after, er – ’ He consulted his clipboard.

‘Jenny Mercer,’ Miss Chisholm reminded him.

‘Yes, yes, quite so. I’m sure she’ll be all right and my wife, Mabel, will call in often just to see . . . And you’ll be staying for a day or two, you said, so . . .’

They had arrived at the back door and an elderly woman stood there dressed from head to toe in black. She stooped a little and her small face was covered with lines and wrinkles. Her white hair was a wispy cloud around her head. She did not smile a welcome, but held the door open for them to step inside.

They crowded into the small sitting room, the three visitors and the two Miss Listers. It was dingy and uninviting, the only natural lighting coming from one of the small front windows.

‘So, this is the girl you want us to house,’ the elder of the two women – the one who had opened the back door and ushered them in – began. They saw now the other sister for the first time. She was taller than her sister, thin and straight-backed. Her grey hair was scraped back from her face into a bun. She, too, was dressed completely in black.

‘Yes, Miss Lister.’ Mr Tomkins almost bowed with respect. ‘Her name is Jenny Mercer and she’s – er – ’ Again he consulted his clipboard. ‘Ten years old.’

The taller of the two sisters – Miss Agnes – looked the girl up and down. ‘Rather young. We were hoping for someone older, Mr Tomkins. Someone who could help Christine about the house.’ She sniffed. ‘This child is going to be more of a hindrance than a help.’

‘Jenny’s a very willing girl,’ Miss Chisholm put in. ‘I’m sure she’ll help with whatever jobs she can.’

Jenny was growing more anxious by the minute. She didn’t like the look of these two old women. The house was dingy, the room cluttered with ornaments and the horsehair sofa, she knew, would scratch the back of her bare legs.

She tugged on Miss Chisholm’s hand. ‘I don’t want to stay here. I don’t like—’

‘Hush, Jenny, there’s a dear.’

Mr Tomkins cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid there are no other billets left. If you could just—’

‘I see,’ Miss Agnes said primly, her mouth pursed. Although the younger of the two sisters, she now seemed to speak for both of them. ‘We’ve been given the dregs. The child no one else wants, have we?’

‘Miss Agnes—’ the hapless man began, but the woman’s tirade was not finished yet. She held up her hand. ‘My sister and I take it very personally, Mr Tomkins, that you did not see fit to choose a more suitable evacuee for us to welcome into our home. I doubt this little – ’ she paused, searching for the appropriate word – ‘urchin even knows the meaning of the word “gentility”. Still, perhaps whilst she is with us, we may be able to instil into her a modicum of respectability. Never let it be said that the Miss Listers shirk what they know to be their duty, however – ’ again there was a pause – ‘arduous that duty might be.’

Jenny didn’t understand all the words the woman was using, but she felt the animosity, the disgust in the woman’s tone and in her manner.

‘Miss Chisholm – ’ Again she tugged at her teacher’s hand. ‘Please . . .’

Miss Chisholm bent down and whispered in the girl’s ear. ‘Now, you must be a good girl and do exactly what you’re told. I’ll come again in the morning and see how you are. I promise.’

And that was all that the teacher could offer. She was helpless to question Mr Tomkins’s authority, though once outside, she promised herself silently, he would certainly hear her thoughts on the suitability of handing over a city streetwise kid into the care – if it could be called that – of two prim spinsters.