Remember Me (15 page)

“Well, now,” said Uncle Dai, “glad it is I am that they’re taking an interest. It means – are you writing it down,
bach
?”

“Oh yes, Uncle Dai, I am. It’s homework.”

“And then,
Gwlad, Gwlad
means ‘Wales, Wales,’ my heart is in Wales forever. When I was a boy, my father told me stories of our heroes, how they fought and fell in battle, like they do now.”

“Thank you very much,” said Marianne. “It’s very beautiful. Miss Barry, our teacher, has started a rambling club. ‘So that we can learn to appreciate the beauty of the countryside,’ she said, and the first meeting is on Saturday morning. So will it be alright if I go after I’ve cleaned up my room?”

Marianne had planned this speech as carefully as though she were asking for some huge favor, not just a walk. Auntie Vi liked to make all Marianne’s plans for her.

“Oh, there’s disappointed I am, Mairi,” she said. “Uncle Dai’s managed to get us a railway pass to Swansea. You know how difficult that is in wartime. I wanted to take you to my sister Lilian.
She hasn’t met her new little niece yet.” There was a pause, “However, as it’s educational, you shall go this time. But I don’t want to wait till Christmas to introduce you to your relatives.”

“Yes, Auntie Vi, thank you.”

Relatives! Auntie Vi is getting worse.

Auntie Vi said, “I won’t be that late getting back, long before blackout. Isn’t that so, Dai? And you’ll come straight home after your walk.”

“I will, thank you, Auntie Vi,” said Marianne with genuine gratitude. She was having to pretend to be someone she was not, more and more lately. Inside, she was still Marianne, and outside, someone called Mairi.

On Saturday, eight girls from Marianne’s class were met by Miss Barry in the town hall square. They walked three miles to Pwll, a small village outside the town, named for the pond around which the small houses clustered. They climbed the hill that overlooked the town beach below.

The beach was strictly out-of-bounds now because of the danger of land mines. It was closed off by barbed wire – not that that had stopped some of the local and London children climbing through and looking for any scrap metal washed in by the tide. Everyone knew that one of the evacuees had gone there with her foster brother on a dare, but no one gave her away.

The girls shared their sandwiches and Marianne swapped her jam ones for Celia’s larver bread.

“Doesn’t seem fair,” Celia said. “You don’t have to, Mary Anne.”

“I love it. Honestly, I’m not being noble.”

“It’s true,” said Lucy. “She likes it.”

Hilary said, “Well, keep away from me. I can’t stand that fishy smell.”

Miss Barry said, “I brought some Welsh cakes. I made them from my landlady’s own recipe. I hope they’re good; I’ve kept them warm in the tin.” The cakes disappeared rapidly.

“I never thought about teachers being billeted,” said Jane.

“I know,” said Miss Barry. “We’re not supposed to be human. I miss my little flat in London, and my family and friends the same as you do. My brother is in the R.A.F., so I like to listen to the nine o’clock news, but it’s not always convenient to have the wireless on at that time. There’s only one room for the family, so then I can’t listen. And I miss being able to have a cup of tea whenever I feel like it. Small trivial things, so I do understand how hard it is for you all sometimes.”

Suddenly all the girl’s grievances poured out, released by Miss Barry’s openness with them.

“I dread Sundays, nothing but chapel,” said Marjorie.

“At home we have a bathroom. Here I have a bath in the scullery once a week in a tin bath, and I have to use the water after my foster sister, and anyone could walk in and see me,” Barbara complained.

“I wish I knew for sure my foster mother doesn’t read my letters. I don’t have any privacy,” Celia said.

“Auntie Dilys complains how much I eat. She says ten and sixpence isn’t enough to feed me. We had blood pudding
yesterday – I couldn’t swallow it, and she said, ‘There’s gratitude for you,’ in a mean voice, trying to make me feel guilty,” Rebecca said.

Jane agreed, “That’s the worst part, always having to be grateful. She should be grateful to me. I get behind in my homework because she gives me so much to do. All she wants is a maid.”

“Nothing’s like it is at home. I won’t stay here for Christmas. I won’t. I want my parents and my own room.” Hilary’s voice was petulant.

Miss Barry said, “I don’t think the war will be over by Christmas. You’ll have to be patient like everyone else, Hilary. Perhaps your parents might come down and visit you.”

“I like my billet, but I do long for a bit of peace and quiet sometimes. There are so many people in our little house.” Lucy smiled as she spoke to soften her words.

“My foster father’s afraid they’re going to bomb the docks. He thinks Swansea will get it too. What will we do if we’re invaded?” asked Anne.

Marjorie said, “My foster father said if the enemy lands, he knows a secret way through the mines. The enemy will never find us.”

“Girls, you are perfectly safe. This is why you’re here,” said Miss Barry.

An airplane flew out of the clouds and low over the village.

“Must be one of ours,” said Marianne. “We didn’t hear an air-raid warning.”

No one said anything, and Hilary looked at her and raised her eyebrows. Marianne knew exactly what she was thinking. If Miss Barry hadn’t been there, she would have made some remark to remind Marianne she was from the wrong side, the German side.

Lucy said, “Sugar’s going to be rationed any minute, like butter and bacon, my foster mother told me; and my foster father says everyone knows we’ll have a really cold winter. He was telling me when he was out of work before the war and on the dole, he and the other colliers had to climb up the coal tips in the dark, secretly, and look for bits of coal to take home.”

Miss Barry said, “There was terrible unemployment in the valleys in Wales these last years. Real hardship, and yet the people have taken us in. It can’t be easy for them, either. Now it looks like rain and we’d better get back. Next week we’ll plan a walk along the old colliery line to the reservoir. Even with the coal tips, it’s quite beautiful.”

After they’d caught the trolley bus from the terminus in Pwll, and got back to town, Lucy asked Marianne, “Do you want to come and see Horace?”

“Who?” asked Marianne.

“You know, the pig,” said Lucy.

“Alright, but I can’t stay long.”

Lucy lived in a small terraced house near the Rugby grounds. She took Marianne round the back. Marianne could hear someone coughing, gasping for breath.

“Who’s that? Shouldn’t we go and see what’s the matter?” Marianne asked Lucy.

“It’s Auntie Ethel’s father. He’s got silicosis. You get it from breathing in coal dust down the mine. He coughs like that all the time. His lungs don’t work properly anymore.”

She led the way into the small shed that Horace shared with the coal. Horace lay on his side, fierce-looking and enormously fat. It was hard to see very much in the gloom of the shed, but he seemed to be covered with uneven coarse short hair and his skin was a mottled pink and gray.

“He doesn’t have much room, does he?” said Marianne.

“It’s not like a dog that needs a run in the park. We’re fattening him up. He’s a nice pig, he eats everything, and he gets all the scraps. We share him with Mr. and Mrs. Bevan next door. He gets out sometimes, when we clean the shed and Mr. Bevan brings clean straw. He’s well looked after.”

She tickled Horace behind his ears with a stick. Horace curled his lip, showing yellow pointed teeth. “Look at him smiling. I’m quite fond of him. Not too fond, because we’ll be eating him for Christmas. Poor old Horace, you’ll be bacon and trotters, and roasts and chops and knuckles and ham and ears.”

“Ears? Lucy, you’re making it up. You’re teasing me, aren’t you?” Marianne said.

“Why would I?” said Lucy. “Oh, Mary Anne, you are funny. You’ve seen meat at the butcher’s. Horace will be like that. Mrs. Bevan has a wonderful recipe for ears. You clean them, and singe
off the hair, and then you boil them till they’re soft, and then cut them into strips and fry them with onions.”

Marianne rushed out into the yard and closed her eyes. She tried to breathe deeply, so as not to be sick. The air was sooty and smelled of Horace and coal dust and the fumes from the tinworks. The coughing from the kitchen continued. Horace grunted.

Lucy joined her. “Is there anything wrong?” she asked.

“No, it’s getting late. I have to be back before blackout. Thanks for showing me Horace. I’ve never seen a pig that close up before. I never thought about it. At home, you know with my parents, we don’t eat pig.” Marianne felt such an enormous burden of guilt and homesickness at that moment that tears threatened. She blinked them away.

Lucy said, “I don’t mind it here. It’s wartime; you get used to it. Horace is my personal war effort. I collect every scrap of food I can find for him. See you Monday.”

When Marianne got back, Auntie Vi was making supper. “There’s late you are. Mash the potatoes, Mairi. Uncle Dai’s going out to play darts. Auntie Lil sent us some pork chops for supper. She said she can’t wait to meet her new little niece.” She began to fry onions in the pan and added three bright pink pork chops. “Lucky you are, Mairi, always a good meal on the table. Rissoles and chips is what a lot of the ‘vacuees live on.”

“I’m not very hungry, Auntie Vi. You gave me a lot of sandwiches, thank you.”

Auntie Vi’s voice hardened. “You’re not going to be difficult about your food I hope, Mairi. Be grateful for what the good Lord provides.” She placed a chop, potatoes, and cabbage on a plate in front of Marianne.

Uncle Dai said grace. Marianne looked at the tiny bubbles of blood on her meat, where Auntie Vi had speared the chop with a fork. She put a small piece of potato in her mouth. She was afraid it wouldn’t go down.

She wanted her mother, her own bed in her own room. At home, whenever she had a stomachache, Mutti would bring her a cup of peppermint tea and a hot water bottle. A tear slid down her cheek onto the cabbage. Instead of missing her mother less lately, she was missing her more and more.

Auntie Vi went to put the kettle on. Marianne began to shiver.

Uncle Dai looked at her. “Got a chill staying out in all weathers. No more rambles for you,
bach.
” He slid Marianne’s pork chop onto his plate.

Auntie Vi came in from the scullery. “After supper we’ll listen to the wireless nice and cosy, while you have a good soak in the tub in front of the fire. Uncle Dai’s off any minute.”

“Thank you, Auntie Vi. You’re very kind to me,” said Marianne.

“Only Christian, isn’t it? You’re our little girl. One happy family.”

When Marianne finished her bath, she watched Auntie Vi empty the dregs of her teacup onto a saucer, and peer into the cup.

“Look at the shape of the tea leaves, Mairi – a stranger coming to visit from far away. Off to bed, now.” She cleared the teacups absentmindedly.

Later, lying in Elisabeth’s bed, Marianne thought of all the people she knew who were far away. All the people she loved best in the world. Of course tea leaves were just superstition, but what if the leaves did mean something?

O
ne evening a few weeks later, Auntie Vi looked up from the scarf she was knitting for soldiers’ Christmas parcels and said, “I want you to call me
Mam.
”

Mam?
Marianne put down the Latin verbs she was memorizing and stared at Auntie Vi. “But
Mam
means ‘Mother,’ ” Marianne said, shocked.

“Yes. You can be my proper little girl. Like Elisabeth.” Mrs. Roberts smiled a blissful smile. Her eyes did not see Marianne at all.

Marianne said, “I have a mother, Auntie Vi. You know that.”

“Well, she’s not a proper mother, now is she? Sending you to another country. I never heard of a real mother doing that. Not natural, is it? So you’ll call me
Mam
if you please, Mairi.”

Marianne wanted to scream at her:
She sent me away because she loves me. She’s not an unnatural mother. She’s not. Stop trying to take her place.
She bit the inside of her cheek hard.

Marianne barely slept that night. After the
“nos da,
Elisabeth” and the bible reading, the ritual of the doll, and the closing of the window followed by Auntie Vi’s silent departure, she lay awake for hours, trying to decide what to do.

Next day she was in trouble in school. She’d forgotten to bring her math homework, and there were red crosses against six of the eight problems on Friday’s test.

“Mary Anne Kohn,” said Miss Joyce in icy tones, “I’m very tired of making allowances for you. You are spoilt and lazy, with disgraceful work habits. There is more to life than dressing up and parading onstage.”

The class gasped. Even Hilary didn’t smirk.

“You are taking advantage. Your kind always do.”

Marianne stood up and said, “Excuse me, Miss Joyce. May I have permission to go home at recess to fetch my homework? And I’m not sure what you mean by ‘taking advantage.’ ”

Every head turned to look at Marianne. Hilary smiled encouragingly at her and Marianne could feel the class shift in their desks, closing ranks around her, almost physically. She might not be one of them exactly, but they were on her side.

“Leave the room and stand in the corridor,” thundered Miss Joyce.

Marianne walked out, and closed the door behind her, so softly that it was as much as a statement as if she had slammed it.

Now what? I’ve really done it. I’ll probably be expelled, and then I’ll have to stay with Auntie Vi all day.
But it did feel good just once to
answer back, to stand up and not be silent because she was afraid. Thank goodness the play was over – Miss Joyce might have forbidden her to perform out of spite.

Miss Lacey walked by. “Mary Anne? You are the last student I would have expected to see in the corridor.” She entered the classroom and Marianne heard the girls get to their feet and their chorus of “Good morning, Miss Lacey.”