Orphans of War (4 page)

Ivy took her home to the cottage down the street where she had to share a bed with Ivy’s little sister, Carol. All Maddy wanted to do was sit by the scorched apple tree and wait for Bertie, but the sight of the ruined timbers was so terrible she couldn’t bear to stay for more than a few minutes. If she could find him then she would have someone in the world to hug for comfort while the authorities decided what to do with her.

Telegrams were cabled to the Bellaires in Durban. Maddy had to sign forms in her best joined-up handwriting to register for immediate housing and papers.

The funeral arrangements were taken out of Maddy’s
hands by the vicar and his wife. He suggested a joint service for all the bomb victims in Chadley parish church. She overheard Ivy whispering that the coffins would be filled with sand because no trace of Granny and George had been found. The thought of them burned up gave her nightmares and she screamed and woke up all the Sangsters.

Ration books were granted, and coupons for mourning clothes, but everything just floated past her as if in some silent dream. She shed no tears at the service. Maddy stood up straight and looked ahead. They weren’t in those boxes by the chancel steps. There were other boxes, and two little ones: the children from the garage, who had died in the explosion. The family clung together, sobbing.

Why weren’t Mummy and Daddy here? Why were they off out of it all? All Maddy felt was a burning heat where her heart was. Everything was destroyed–her home, her family–and just the comfort of strangers for company. Where would she go? To an orphanage or back to St Hilda’s?

Then a telegram appeared from an address in Yorkshire.

Maddy stared at this turn-up, puzzled, and pushed it over for Ivy to read.

‘Who’s Prunella Belfield? What a funny name,’ she smiled.

‘She must be a relation I don’t know,’ said Maddy. ‘My grandma Belfield, I expect.’

Whoever she was, this relative expected a reply by return and there was nothing to stop her from going north. At least it would be far away from all terrors of the past weeks. There was nothing for her in Chadley now.

Sowerthwaite

‘They must be picked fast before the frost Devil gets them!’ yelled Prunella Belfield, burying her head into the blackberry bushes, while shouting instructions to her line of charges to fill their bowls to the brim.

It was a beautiful autumn afternoon and the new evacuees needed airing and tiring out before Matron began the evening bed routine in earnest.

‘But they sting, miss!’ moaned Betty Potts, the eldest of the evacuees, who never liked getting her fingers mucked up.

‘Don’t be a big girl’s blouse,’ laughed Bryan Partridge, who’d climbed over the stone wall to reach a better cluster of bushes, unaware that Hamish, the Aberdeen Angus bull, was eyeing him with interest from across the meadow.

‘Stay on this side, Bryan,’ Prunella warned, to no avail. This boy was as deaf as a post when it suited him. He had runaway from four billets so far and was in danger of tearing the only pair of short trousers that fitted him.

‘Miss…’ whined bandy-legged Ruby Sharpe, ‘why are the biggestest ones always too high to reach?’

Why indeed? What could she say to this philosophical question? Life was full of challenges and just when you thought you had it all sorted out, along came another bigger challenge to make you stretch up even further or dig deeper into your reserves.

Just when she and Gerald had settled down after another sticky patch in their marriage, along came the war to separate them. Just when she thought she was pregnant at long last, along came a second miscarriage and haemorrhage to put paid to that hope for ever.

Just when she thought they could leave Sowerthwaite and her mother-in-law’s iron grip, along came the war to keep her tied to Brooklyn Hall and grounds as a glorified housekeeper.

If anyone had told her twelve months ago she would be running a hostel for ‘Awkward Evacuees’, most of whom had never seen a cow, sheep or blackberry bush in their lives before, she’d have laughed with derision. But the war was changing everything.

When the young Scottish billeting officer turned up at Pleasance Belfield’s house, he stared up at the Elizabethan stone portico, the mullioned windows and the damson hues of the Virginia creeper stretched over the walls, and demanded they take in at least eight evacuees immediately.

Mother-in-law refused point-blank and pointed to the line of walking sticks in the hallstand under the large oak staircase.

‘I have my own refugees, thank you,’ she announced in her patrician, ‘don’t mess with me’ tones that usually shrunk minor officials into grovelling apologies. But this young man was well seasoned and countered her argument with a sniff.

‘But there is the dower house down the lane, I gather that belongs to you?’

He was talking about the empty house by the green. It was once the the Victory Tree public house, but had been shuttered up for months after some fracas with the last tenant. It had lain empty, undisturbed, the subject of much conjecture by the Parish Council of Sowerthwaite in Craven, tucked away by the gates to the old Elizabethan manor. Not even Pleasance could wriggle out of this.

‘I have plans for that property,’ Mother countered. ‘In due course it will be rented out.’

‘With respect, madam, this is an emergency. With the blitz we need homes for city children immediately. Your plans can wait.’

No one talked to Pleasance Belfield like that. He deserved an award for conspicuous bravery. Her cheeks flushed with indignation and her bolster bosom heaved with disapproval at this inconvenient conversation. If ever a woman belied her name, it was Gerald’s mama, Pleasance. She ruled the town as if it was her feudal domain. She sat on every committee, checked that the vicar preached the right sermons and kept everyone in their proper places as if the twentieth century hadn’t even started.

The war was an inconvenience she wanted to ignore
but it was impossible. There was not a flag or a poster or any recruitment drive without her approval, and now she was being faced with an influx of strangers and officials who didn’t know their place.

‘My dear fellow, anyone can see that place’s not suitable for children. It was a public house with no suitable accommodation for children. Who would take responsibility? I can’t have city ruffians racing round the streets disturbing the peace. Let them all be put up in tents somewhere out of the way.’

‘Oh, yes, and when a bomb drops on hundreds of them, will you take the responsibility of telling their poor mothers?’ he replied, ignoring her fury at his insolence. ‘We’re hoping young Mrs Belfield would see to things.’ The officer looked straight at Plum, giving her a look of desperation but also just the escape she needed from the tyranny of life with Mother-in-law and her gang.

‘But I don’t know anything about children,’ Plum was quick to add. Gerald and she had not managed to take a child to term and now that she was nearly forty, her chances of conceiving were very slim.

‘You’ll soon learn,’ said the billeting officer. ‘We’ll provide a proper nurse and domestic help. I see you have dogs,’ he smiled, pointing to her red setters, Sukie and Blaze, tearing round the paths like mad things. ‘Puppies and kiddies, there’s not much difference, is there? The ones we have in mind are a bit wayward, you see, runaways from their billets mostly. You look just the type to lick them into shape.’ The man winked at her and she blushed.

It was time she did some war work, and a house full of geriatric relatives hoping to sit out the war in comfort was not her idea of keeping the home fires burning.

‘My daughter-in-law has other responsibilities. There’s the house to run, and with so few servants I shall need her services,’ Pleasance countered quickly, sensing danger.

‘With respect, madam, I have checked, and Mrs Belfield is registered for war work, being of age, available and without children. It is her duty—’

‘How dare you come here and demand such sacrifices from a married woman? In my day, men like you…This is unacceptable to me—’

‘Mother, he’s got a point. I would like to help where I can,’ Plum interrupted. ‘We all have to make sacrifices. Gerald is doing his bit and now I must do mine. I shall only be down the lane.’

‘Who will make up the four for bridge?’ Mother sighed. ‘I don’t know what the world is coming to…I shall write to the West Riding and complain about your attitude, young man.’

‘You can do that, madam, but I have powers to insist that the stable block and servants quarters’ be utilised if needed. Would you prefer to have the kiddies on your doorstep or in your house?’

Plum almost choked at this obvious blackmail. It was good to see her bullying mother-in-law cornered for once.

‘Oh, do what you must, but I insist that Mrs Belfield returns each night. Who is there left to do
the shutters for the blackout? None of my guests can stretch that far.’

‘I’m sure we can find a young lad from amongst the hostel to help you out.’

‘I want nothing to do with any of them, thank you,’ Pleasance sighed, patting her heart. ‘This’ll be the death of me, Prunella.’

‘She looks a gey tough old bird to me,’ muttered the billeting officer under his breath in his strong Scottish accent. The crafty blighters at the town hall had sent a stranger. No one in Sowerthwaite would have dared address her ladyship with such disrespect.

Plum grinned to herself. There were some changes already in this war that were long overdue. Mama was trying to sit out the war as if it didn’t exist. She refused to have a wireless in the house or a newspaper or any alteration to her regime, but one by one her maids and groundsmen, chauffeur and handymen had joined up, and they were having to make do in the kitchen with two refugees from Poland.

Why shouldn’t town children have fresh air and peace and quiet after all they’d been through? Why shouldn’t they romp through the fields and have rosy cheeks and strong limbs, fresh food? Her illusions were soon to be shattered by the first arrivals to the hostel three weeks later: ill-clad children in plimsolls, with scabby chins and nits.

‘Is this it?’ Plum said, staring in at the Victory Tree with disbelief. She’d never been inside the place before. It was a rough old stone building, little more than a
long farmhouse, shuttered up and unwelcoming. ‘It needs a lick of paint.’

‘It needs more than that,’ said Miss Blunt, the new matron, sniffing the air haughtily. ‘I can still smell stale ale and urinals: very unhygienic. I thought we’d be using the big house…I’m not used to this sort of squalor. How will we ever get it ready in time? The children are due in a few days. Where will we get distemper, Mrs Belfield?’

‘That’s for the Town Hall to provide, or we can use lime wash; farmers always have lime wash.’ Plum refused to be defeated by the size of the task. ‘Everything else is ordered. At least they’ve got plenty of grounds to play in at the back, and there’s a wash house and stables for storage. The bar’s already been ripped out. This will make a good playroom for them to make a rumpus.’ She pointed to the large taproom.

‘This will be my sitting room,’ announced Miss Blunt with another sniff, eyeing the coal fireplace and the windows overlooking the green. ‘You’ll be up at the big house. I need somewhere to retire to…’

‘Why not make your room in the snug? It’s warmer and quieter in there. If we can give these children some space to let off steam,’ Plum added, thinking of ways to keep them out of mischief.

‘I’ll be the judge of that. They’re not dogs off the leash, Mrs Belfield. These are naughty girls and boys who don’t know how lucky they are to be housed. They must learn to run a home and stay in their place. Keep them busy and teach them domestic skills. Make them useful citizens and stand no nonsense.’ Miss Blunt was
busy making her lists. ‘I shall need locks on all the doors. You can’t trust common children. They’re like wild animals.’

In the end they compromised by making the taproom the dining hall, with chairs and a bench by the fireplace. Old furniture from the servants’ quarters was brought down from Brooklyn Hall on a cart. The Town Hall sent two old men to whitewash throughout the building so it smelled fresh and clean and looked brighter. To everyone’s amazement, they installed a big bath and flushing toilet at the top end of the staircase. Most of the residents of the village had to make do with outside brick privvies in the yard and zinc tubs.

‘It’s a right rum do giving strangers fancy plumbing. The Owd Vic’s gone up in the world. It were allus a spit’n’sawdust place afore,’ laughed one of the decorators as he sloshed the distemper over the bumpy walls. ‘Ah could tell you some right tales about this…but not for ladies’ ears, happen…There was a murder here once in the olden days. One of them navvies building the railway line threw some gelignite on the fire and near on blew the place up! They say there’s a ghost as—’

‘But why’s it called the Victory Tree?’ Plum was curious.

The old man shook his head. ‘Summat to do with the army recruits. Happen they mustered them up here,’ he said. ‘Before the last war, though. The Sowerthwaite Pals, they were called. Fifty bonny lads went out but you can count on yer hand the ones as
came back. I was a farmer’s lad and never got to go…Lost a lot of my school mates. Her ladyship took it bad with losing Captain Julian, and then Arthur Belfield got a blighty…Never see him up here, do we?’