The Hardie Inheritance (20 page)

Perhaps that was wishful thinking. Rupert was the most handsome man she had ever known, and the best companion, except for her father. All the other girls at school had pashes on one of the prefects or teachers, but Trish was in love with Rupert. No doubt that was just a pash as well: but whatever it was, it was powerful enough to make her blush and feel hot all over whenever he said something nice to her without putting the tease in his voice. But he was twenty-five. How could she expect him to wait for another four or five years without falling in love and getting married to someone else? And yet it did sometimes seem that he smiled at her as though she were seventeen already.

The only person who had ever treated her as a little girl when she
was
a little girl was Mrs Hardie, who found it easier than Grace to kiss and cuddle. But it had been Mrs Hardie who several months before her thirteenth birthday had told her that very soon now she would find that she was old enough to start having babies, although of course she mustn't dream of doing so for a long time yet and until she was married. And when, not long afterwards, the first sign of adulthood arrived, it was Mrs Hardie who showed her, as woman to woman, how to cope with it. So even to her step-grandmother she was not a child any longer.

Grace had told her to do what she thought best. It was a message of trust, which must be taken seriously. And as Brown Bess turned out of the lodge gates and into The Riding, Trish came to the first truly adult decision of her life.

She had asked to go to boarding school. For all the wrong reasons, because she thought it would be fun. She knew that the request had been taken seriously, because when her father
returned from photographing Castlemere, she had heard Grace telling him about the man who wanted to buy her Pregnant Woman statue. It had not occurred to Trish that she ought not to be eavesdropping – because she knew about the statue already – until her stepmother had gone on to say that she thought boarding school fees could be afforded if they were really wanted. And someone must have written off or made enquiries amongst friends, for the past week had seen the arrival of three large envelopes which were carried away from the breakfast table unopened;

It would not be fair to bring a family of evacuees back to Greystones and then disappear somewhere else herself. It was not at all clear to Trish what the war was going to mean, but if her father was going to be in France and if Philip was going to be ill and Grace and Mrs Hardie both worried, then she must stay at home to help. And perhaps after all she had not really wanted to go, but only to find out whether her wish would be properly considered or merely brushed aside.

This train of thought carried her to the hall, which was crowded with villagers and the children they had come to collect. Miss Hoare stood in the middle of the crush, clutching a sheaf of papers as she called out names and marked them off.

Trish made her way through the crowd to announce her arrival and be given her family; but another woman claimed Miss Hoare's attention first.

‘I can't be doing with this,' she said indignantly. ‘Saving a little English kiddie from Hitler's bombs, that's one thing, but taking a nigger into my own home, that's quite another.'

‘Not so loud,' said Miss Hoare, flustered. ‘They'll hear you.'

‘He knows what he is. I'll take one of them like I promised. The white one. But not the other.'

‘They're brothers.' Miss Hoare spoke more firmly. ‘It would be quite wrong to separate them.'

‘Brothers! If those two are brothers, all I can say is that their mother's no better than she ought to be.'

‘That may be so, but it's not the children's fault. Please keep your voice down, Mrs Goodwin.'

Trish looked with interest at the two boys who were the subject of this discussion, and who had certainly heard every word of it. It was true that nobody would take them for brothers. They were identically dressed, wearing long mackintoshes, with their gas masks, in cardboard boxes, slung across their chests by string. But the elder of the two was thin and sharp-featured. Beneath his straight brown hair, his face was long and unhealthily pale. The six-year-old who stood beside him, clutching his hand anxiously, was stockily built, with black curly hair. It was not fair, thought Trish, to call him a nigger, but it could not be denied that his skin was khaki. At any moment, she could tell, he was going to burst into tears.

There was no time to feel sorry for him, though, for Miss Hoare, looking round for some escape from the indignant Mrs Goodwin, had caught her eye. Trish announced her name and address and was led to the end of the hall, where two women in green uniforms were pouring cups of tea for the Londoners.

‘Here you are. The family for Greystones. Mrs Jackson and Jimmy and Florrie.'

A stout woman with a runny-nosed two-year-old on her knee set down her cup and looked Trish up and down.

‘About bleeding time,' she said.

Trish, who had intended to say something welcoming, was taken aback and had to make an effort to be polite.

‘Can I carry some of your luggage?' she asked.

Mrs Jackson pointed at two brown carrier bags.

‘Is that all?' said Trish.

‘What d'you expect? Couple of bleeding cabin trunks?' She began to lead the way out of the hall. Bending to pick up the bags as they passed, Trish became aware of a strong smell. She looked at the billeting officer in dismay.

‘It'll be all right,' said Miss Hoare hastily. ‘It's bound to be an upheaval on both sides, but –'

‘They smell,' said Trish.

‘Yes, I know, dear, but – Look, if you take young children out of their homes at half past six in the morning and move them half way across London and then put them on a train with no corridor there are bound to be one or two accidents.'

‘It's her more than them.'

‘Just do your best to be sympathetic for the first day or two, there's a good girl, and I'm sure you'll settle down nicely together. Tell your mother –'

‘My mother's got sickness in the house,' said Trish. She had not meant to pass on the warning that any arrangement must be considered only temporary, but was realizing fast that Grace had seen the snags of the proposed arrangement better than she had. ‘She'll be wanting a word with you in a day or two. But she didn't want to let you down now.'

She turned to hurry after the Jacksons, who were standing outside and looking up and down the village street in bewilderment.

‘Where are the bleeding shops?' demanded Mrs Jackson.

‘The village shop's just round the corner there.'

‘Proper shops, I mean. Woolies, that sort of thing. And the cinema. Where's that?'

‘In Oxford.'

‘That where we got off the train? That's miles away.'

‘That makes it more of a treat. Here we are.' She smiled at the two children in as friendly a way as she could manage. ‘Would you like to pat the pony on her nose? She's called Brown Bess.'

The little boy backed away nervously, whilst Florrie buried her face in her mother's skirt. As for Mrs Jackson, she was silenced for a moment by incredulity.

‘You're expecting us to ride in a bleeding cart!' she exclaimed at last.

‘You don't have to,' said Trish. ‘I brought it to carry your luggage and because I thought the children might like it. It's got proper seats. But you can walk if you'd rather.'

‘Aren't there any buses?'

‘Not from the village to our house, no.'

With much effort and complaint the family was loaded aboard. More slowly than on the outward journey, Brown Bess began to plod uphill. As they turned in through the lodge gates, Trish pointed proudly. ‘That's Greystones.'

The reaction was not what she had hoped for.

‘My Gawd! Miles from anywhere! What am I expected to do with myself all day in a place like that?'

‘Well, I suppose the same as you'd do anywhere, looking after children,' said Trish, her patience wearing thin. ‘Cooking and cleaning and washing and mending, that sort of thing. You can help in the garden if you want to.' She realized the unlikelihood of this. ‘But even if you don't, we'll give you fresh vegetables every day.'

‘Jimmy won't eat no greens. Where's the chip shop?'

‘I don't know. We grow all our own potatoes. They're much nicer than anything from a shop.'

‘I'm not stopping here,” said Mrs Jackson. ‘Turn this thing round and take me back.'

‘But you can't –'

‘I can do what I bloody well like. I'd rather take my chance with Mr Hitler than be buried alive out here. Get us back there while there's still time to get on a train.'

Just for a moment Trish hesitated. But Grace would be relieved and Miss Hoare would not care as long as she was not expected to find another billet for the family. ‘Come on then, Bess,' she said, and pulled on the rein to turn round.

‘It wasn't our fault,' she said to Miss Hoare twenty minutes later. ‘We'd gone to ever such a lot of trouble. Making them a kitchen and somewhere to sit. And we were going to have a lovely supper. We killed a chicken specially, because we knew she wouldn't want to start cooking straight after arriving. But all they want to eat is chips.'

‘Don't worry, dear. I'm sure you did your best. There's another one the same. It's difficult when they're not used to country ways. Go home and thank your mother very much
for offering. I might have to call on her again, mind you. But –'

‘What's happening to those two?' interrupted Trish. She pointed across the hall. By now all the unaccompanied children had been taken away except for the boys whom she had heard being rejected an hour earlier. Side by side they were sitting on a bench, the picture of dejection. The younger boy was slumped in exhaustion; his brother, silently, was crying.

‘I'll have to take them home with me until I can find somewhere else. I couldn't persuade Mrs Goodwin to change her mind and keep her promise. I've walked them all the way up the High Street knocking on doors, in the hope that someone would take pity on them. The little one's too tired to walk any further. It's going to be a problem, but –'

‘We'll take them,' said Trish.

Startled, the billeting officer turned to stare at her. At first her expression was one of relief, but then she shook her head regretfully.

‘It's a different sort of arrangement, dear. They're on their own. It would mean looking after them. I know your mother was willing to provide accommodation, but I don't think –'

‘When I tell her what she's been spared! That foul-mouthed smelly woman! She'll be glad. Well, anyway, it would be better than you having to walk them round the streets while you look for somewhere. If you find another place you can come up and tell them that someone else wants them. But it must have been horrid for them, hearing everyone say No.'

Without waiting for any further comment she walked across to the two boys.

‘Hello,' she said. ‘My name's Trish Faraday. Would you like to come and live in my house?'

Smiling, she put out a hand to be shaken. The younger boy, who had been half asleep, leapt to his feet and began to pummel her stomach with his small fists.

‘Hoy, steady on, you young boxer!' she exclaimed. ‘I was only trying to shake hands.'

‘He thought you was going to ‘it ‘im,' explained his brother anxiously. ‘Didn't ‘urt you, did he?'

‘No. What's your name?'

‘I'm Dan. He's Brian.'

‘I shall call him Boxer. Would you like a ride in a pony and cart?'

‘He's awful tired,' said Dan anxiously.

‘It's just outside.' Trish bent down and picked the little boy up. He was heavier than he looked, and she staggered for a moment before settling his legs round her waist. ‘All right?' She rubbed his cheek with her knuckles in a friendly way and felt his face burrowing into her neck.

Miss Hoare came hurrying over to help.

‘They've got some clothes here. Their mother's really made an effort. Pyjamas, even. But are you quite sure, dear, that your mother–'

‘She told me to do whatever I thought was best,' said Trish. She had made her second grown-up decision of the day.

‘Where's that Boxer hiding, then? I'll give him such a boxing if ever I find him.'

The little boy, waiting to be found, hugged himself in pleasure as Trish circled the kitchen, growling like a tiger.

‘Got you!' She pounced, pulling him out from underneath the table and embarking on the mock sparring routine with which every encounter between the two now began. ‘Come on. Time to pick the sprouts for Christmas Day.'

‘Don't like sprouts.'

Trish had known he would say that. Sprouting was a cold job on a frosty day, and he was too young to be allowed a knife. ‘It's either picking sprouts or reading.'

‘Reading, then.' He pretended not to enjoy his reading lessons with her any more than he liked being made to go out in the garden in winter, but she felt sure that secretly he wanted to catch up with the other children in his class. Trish herself, who had been a fluent reader before she was four, had been shocked to discover soon after the arrival of the two evacuees that the six-year-old could not even read his own name.

So in the old scullery which was now called Trish's Painting Room she and Dan had cut out little squares of cardboard and written a letter of the alphabet on each. To make a game of it, she painted bright pictures on scraps of paper. Boxer had to recognize what the picture was supposed to be, find the letters to spell the word and arrange them under the picture. The next day Trish took the picture away and he had to recognize just the word. It might not be the most professional
way of teaching someone to read, but they both enjoyed it.

They were in the middle of the game when Trish heard footsteps approaching, walking round the side of the house. She lifted her head, listening, and Boxer did the same. A young man in army uniform appeared and paused by the window, staring in. For a moment Trish was alarmed, but the little boy by her side began to bounce up and down in delight.