Family Drama 4 E-Book Bundle (144 page)

Mirren kept pointing to his picture but the little girl had no idea who the strange man in uniform was. ‘Daddy,' Mirren kept saying, pointing but Sylvia turned one morning and pointed, ‘Daddy Ben!'

He blushed both at the compliment and with embarrassment. There was nothing he'd have liked more but it was never to be. Four years is a long time in the life of a child. The months and seasons had rushed by so quickly. Then the letters stopped after the agony of Arnhem in September '44 and everyone but Mirren feared the worst.

She stuck out her chin like a warrior and carried on gathering the sheep across the fells, lost in her thoughts. Ben knew better than to challenge her when she was in such a mood.

When the war news was at its grimmest and there was no word from Jack, Mirren took Sylvia up the well-trodden path to World's End, first in her arms, then on her back in a sling when she grew heavy. Now she could walk unaided, with sturdy little legs in wooden clogs, her body wrapped up in scarves and her head in a woolly hat. Florrie was her devoted slave and kept her supplied with knitted outfits. Her dark hair had grown into natural ringlets, her face round as a ball, with a beaming smile that allowed her to wind Daisy, Ben and the farm hands around her finger.

They would stand on the crest of the ridge and shout into the wind, telling Jack all their news and calling him home.

‘Daddy, home!' Sylvia mimicked, not understanding as they wandered round the ruins, playing
houses. No one knew of their secret visits and if they did they said nothing. It was none of their business. Mirren had to be strong for all her family now, and she drew that strength from the wind in her face and the rocks beneath her feet. There was comfort in this refuge and she wanted Sylvia to share in the joy of the place. One day she would make a home for them up here, safe from all the troubles of the world. When the war was over this would be their hidy-hole.

October 1944

It was the morning of the Harvest Supper and the village was trying to raise a thousand pounds to add to their big War Savings campaign so the hall was being decorated ready for the evening's concert and everyone was baking treats from their hoarded rations of eggs, butter and treacle, to be auctioned off.

Up at Cragside, Florrie, Daisy and Mirren were peeling apples from the orchard and Sylvia was getting under everyone's feet as usual. They had ten pies to bake and two sponge cakes to raffle. Sylvia needed a fancy-dress costume for the children's competition but Mirren couldn't settle until the postman had been.

Every day she looked out for letters, and just when they'd given up hope a whole pile of them came together from somewhere in Belgium. Then
nothing, and the news about the parachute campaign wasn't good.

Jack had transferred into some airborne division ages ago but his letters were vague and censored. They knew so little about his activities, only that they were hush-hush. He'd been away for almost four years now; four whole haytimes, harvests and lambings.

He'd missed Sylvia's birthdays, and although she kissed his picture every night and said, ‘Good night, Daddy,' his daughter had no idea who he was. He'd missed all her important milestones: the first tooth, that first step, her first words, her potty training, blowing out the candles on her little birthday cake. How would they catch up when he came home?

He was beginning to feel a stranger even to Mirren. Letters were no substitutes for kisses and cuddles, for chats over tea. They had had only three nights alone together in three and a half years and it all seemed a lifetime ago.

Everyone was drabber, wearier and fed up with war. The travel restrictions were beginning to bite, petrol was short, rationing was stricter. There were more inspections and checks. Labour was harder to get as most of the young farm lads were called up. The whole agricultural effort was a disaster in the dale as the crops didn't ripen off and the ground lost quality.

Mirren was sick of war and the newsreels and the slow Allied progress into Germany. They'd hoped for a quick end after D-day and peace before Christmas but still it was all dragging on and Jack's silence was terrifying. To have gone through all he had and be lost now was unthinkable. She felt so out of touch with him. There was so much to share with him.

By the afternoon, Sylvia was overtired and crotchety, and none of them was in a mood for yet another fund-raising effort. The house was a refuge for evacuees again, these latest fleeing from the doodlebugs in London; a private arrangement with a family who were cousins of Auntie Pam in Leeds was made, bringing Margery, her mother and Dennis and Derek, two little boys who were full of mischief.

It was good to have children for Sylvia to play with but she was clingy and shy with them at first. Daisy still lived in, and Uncle Tom and Auntie Florrie too since Mirren's grandparents died. Large as the house was, it was noisy, untidy and getting shabby.

Nothing had been replaced: neither furnishings, bed linen, crockery nor pots. There were scuff marks on the oak table and up the hall stairs, a line on the walls that got higher as Sylvia grew, but there was no paint to cover up sticky finger-marks.

Sometimes Mirren wished everyone would go away and leave her in peace with her little girl but she was always glad of help and couldn't manage the farm on her own. Walking round the fields and walling were two ways to get away from folk.

Ben had taught her how to do it properly. Mirren would never have managed without his help and encouragement. More and more she relied on him as her big brother. He was patient when Sylvia clambered all over him, feeling in his trouser pocket for the sweets he saved for her from his ration.

He kept an eye on Mirren at the socials when some of new RAF boys got frisky and suggestive. She'd seen too many local girls go off the rails while their husbands were away. To her it was the worst betrayal of all; flirting and dancing was all that was needed to cheer the lads up at the hops but anything else was unthinkable.

Now it was an effort to get dressed up and she was going to give the Harvest Supper a miss if she could. The wind had got up and she shoved an old coat over her shoulders and a scarf round her head to see to the chickens. It was growing damp, another grey mizzling day half over and still no news.

She didn't know what made her look down towards the farm track, but a speck on the horizon caught her eye. Was it a horse strayed out of the
field? No, it was too small. It was someone trundling up the track. There was just something in the mist that made her stop and stare and wonder. Her feet just edged forward for a better view.

There was a jaunty stride and the swing of a greatcoat and Mirren knew, she just
knew
, and her legs started to run and her heart was pounding.

‘Jack!' she screamed. ‘Oh, Jack!' hair flying, her arms outstretched in welcome. She ran towards him and then tripped and fell flat on her face, in a crumpled heap, and the soldier came running.

‘Drunk as usual,' laughed an oh so familiar voice. For a moment time went away and they hugged and kissed and cried with joy to be together again.

‘Jack! I've been so worried. Why didn't you send a telegram?'

‘And have you think the worst? You know me, I like to give a surprise. How's my best girl?' he bent down to pick her up and his breath smelled of ale and cigarettes. ‘Well, I have to say you look a bit of a sight in your old clobber. I thought it was a tramp running to steal my whisky. Where's the little 'un? Tucked up in bed? I'm dying to see her…'

They marched up the track arm in arm and Mirren's face was aching for she had a grin from ear to ear. ‘Florrie! Come and see who the cat's dragged in!' she yelled.

A face appeared at the window and then there was a scream and suddenly his mother leaped on him and burst into tears. ‘If I'd known you were coming, we'd have set out a spread…Let's be looking at you…You've lost a bit of weight.' There was a deep stitched scar across his cheek.

‘What's that?' Mirren pointed.

‘I had an argument with a dispatch bike, another bump on the head. It must be made of concrete, but this one knocked me out.' Jack laughed searching the room. ‘Where's my nipper then?'

‘Just out with her Uncle Ben as usual,' said Florrie, and Mirren saw a flash of annoyance cross her husband's face for a second, then it was gone.

‘I'm starving!' he said, and proceeded to tuck into the sponge cake sitting on the table. He was still sitting there when Ben carried in Sylvia, who was sucking her thumb.

‘She's had a fall and wants her mum,' he said, and then stopped, seeing who was sitting there. ‘Now then, Jack, the warrior returns.'

‘Not before time,' said Jack. ‘Come here and let's have a look at you, young lady.'

Sylvia hung back and started to cry, clinging to Mirren's skirt.

‘This is your daddy,' said Florrie, trying to be helpful, but the little girl hid even more and wouldn't go near him.

‘She's just tired,' Mirren explained, seeing the
hurt on his face. ‘If I'd known I could have prepared her.'

‘Looks to me as if she's been spoiled rotten while I was away; doesn't know who to turn to,' Jack answered, ignoring the child and sipping his tea. ‘She'll soon change her tune when she sees what I've brought her. I see you've got a house full,' he said seeing Margery and her boys creeping through the kitchen, trying to be invisible. ‘It looks a right pig sty in here.'

‘We've made a few changes,' Mirren smiled.

‘So I see,' he said, and his eyes looked so disappointed that she signalled to Ben to get everyone out.

‘Don't worry, we'll all get out of your hair,' said Florrie, taking the hint. ‘It's the harvest do and there's a pile of stuff to go down. You'll be giving it a miss,' she winked. ‘Sylvia's a bit young to be out late. Daddy and Mummy can put you to bed tonight. Won't that be grand?'

‘I go with Denny and Derek,' Sylvia said, wanting to follow the evacuees.

‘No, love, not now. We'll play with Daddy instead,' Mirren tried to appease her but the minx could be wilful when crossed.

‘No…no. He go away.' She stared hard at Jack, then buried her head from him again. No one knew what to do to salvage this reunion. Sylvia was kicking and screaming, and then Mirren
smacked her bottom and everyone disappeared quickly to leave her to it.

Jack got up, making for the drawing room with his kit bag, upset. ‘She can wait for her present after that little exhibition.'

‘Don't take on,' Mirren whispered. ‘She's just flummoxed by all the fuss.'

She was caught whichever way. Better to calm down the child first, feed her and get her into bed, then let Jack have her full attention. What an unexpected turn-up! How many nights had she dreamed of his return and now he was here and she looked like something the cat had dragged in, the house was a mess and his daughter was playing up.

Sylvia needed no rocking and was tucked up without a murmur. Mirren did a quick change out of her farm muck and dabbed some lavender water on herself, brushed out her hair from her scarf and pinched her cheeks. She wanted to look her best for Jack, and tiptoed down the stairs expectantly.

Jack was snoring by the fire, flat out with a half-bottle of whisky, half empty on the side table. Poor love was exhausted and needed peace and quiet, she thought, and left him to it. She took up her mending and sat opposite, watching him sleep, the expressions flickering across his face, twitches and gasps. Let their lovemaking wait. Her husband was home and all was right with the world.

Over the next few days they pieced together his wartime travels: how he was trapped near Arnhem and escaped capture, got himself back to England with help from the brave Dutch underground. Now he had two weeks' leave before he must return to barracks.

Her heart sank at the shortness of his stay. After four years they needed months to get to know each other again, she feared. Florrie fussed over him every second she was free. They never seemed to be alone.

‘You've lost some weight, lad. Just look at you, all skin and bone,' she said, shoving another ladle of soup into his bowl. He looked up, his eyes dull and his skin sallow.

‘Don't fuss, Mother. I'm not that hungry. I've eaten enough broth to last a lifetime. You've had it easy here,' he sneered, looking at the pile of bread and butter, the mound of cold cuts. ‘Our Sylvia's getting quite the little fatty.'

‘No, she's not, she's just perfect for her age,' Mirren argued, hurt at his comment. He was so snappy in the mornings, sitting about smoking, getting under her feet as she went about her chores.

‘When are this lot going home to Scar Head?' he whispered. ‘It's like Piccadilly Circus in here. When are we going to get time to ourself? I'm sick of tripping over Big Ben and his farm hands. I didn't think we'd be reduced to having prisoners
of war in the house. I spent enough time fighting them in Italy. Now I've got to hear a wop singing in the yard.'

‘Jack!' Mirren went hot knowing Umberto was in earshot.

‘Berti is one of the family and he's so good with Sylvia.' That was a mistake.

‘I don't want no Eyeties fondling my kiddy. It's bad enough she chases after Ben. She looks through me when I try to play with her.'

She could see the hurt in his eyes. You couldn't force a child to warm to a stranger. It took time and patience, and Jack wasn't showing anything but frustration.

‘Tom and Florrie have let out the farmhouse. It made sense with all the shortages. This house is big enough for all of us, but I'm sorry it's such a bus station.'

He did look so weary and edgy, the mischief gone from his dark eyes. The Jack who went away was not the one who'd come back. Poor man had been to hell and back and here they were living the same old life but different too. How could he not be disappointed?