‘Cor, we’ll hev to find you a few extra jobs, then,’ Mrs Thrower said, digging her fork deep into the loam and leaning across it to give Tess a hug. ‘Lovely to hev you, my woman. An’ that in’t just spuds for tea, either – there’s runner beans what me an’ your sister picked earlier, an’ a savoury meat roll what young Cherie say is the best she’s ever tasted!’
‘Meat? I bet it’s sausage,’ Tess teased, hefting the box of potatoes. ‘Shall I take this into the shed?’
‘That ’ud be a help,’ Mrs Thrower acknowledged. ‘And that in’t sausage meat, either, Miss Clever! That’s minced mutton.’ She sighed and dug into the next plant. ‘Last one, Cherie, then we’ll go an’ make ourselves a nice cuppa.’
When Tessa had stayed at Staithe Cottage earlier she had slept on the sofa with a couple of thin blankets thrown over her, but now the weather was growing chillier, so Mrs Thrower produced a sleeping bag which she had rescued from the Old House.
‘Here you are, Tess,’ she said, displaying her find. ‘That’ll keep you warmer than them thin old things you had last time. Awright for you, is it?’
‘It used to be Daddy’s,’ Cherie remarked, stroking it. ‘Lucky you, Tess – mind you, I do love my little bed in the back room. I don’t think I’ll swap.’
Tess looked affectionately at the sleeping bag; a relic of Peter’s schooldays, it was worn and rather dirty but perfectly serviceable, and she found she was really looking forward to snuggling up in it in the creaking, comfortable kitchen by the remains of the fire. She had had a tiring day on the farm, but she knew that the Throwers were early risers and therefore went to bed early, so she would not have long to wait. And sure enough, they ate their meal, Cherie growing competitive over the size of the potatoes and vowing she had personally dug all the big ones, washed and wiped up, listened to the last news on the wireless, and then Dickie, Podge and Cherie announced that they would take the dog for a walk whilst Mrs Thrower damped the fire down and Mr Thrower went out to throw a piece of scorched net curtain over his chrysanths, in case of frost.
‘They’ll sell come Sat’day, war or no war,’ Mrs Thrower said placidly when Tess asked why they were still growing flowers. ‘Folk need cheerin’ up now an’ then.’
The dog was a raggedy urchin of a creature, all legs and ears, which Podge had found wandering by the Broad, collarless, a couple of months back. They named him Fluster, loved him dearly, and walked him first thing in the morning and last thing at night.
‘Do else he puddle,’ Cherie said, in the vernacular. ‘Auntie Bess don’t like it when he puddle.’
Tess opened her mouth to correct her, then closed it again. Until Marianne had come along she herself had spoken in dialect at home and without it at school. Marianne had objected and she had changed, but Tess was no Marianne. Let the poor kid take on protective coloration if it makes her happier, she decided. And she is happy; no one could doubt it.
So she accompanied the three youngsters and the dog on a quick scamper up Deeping Lane, and was amused by the way Cherie bossed them about and frequently exchanged insults with Dickie, who was her own age, though she was more circumspect with Podge.
Tess couldn’t help glancing at the Old House as she passed it, though. Gaunt in the moonlight, the glassless windows seemed to glare at her, the mangled thatch to reproach her. Almost four months had passed, but little had been done to repair any of the damage because it was impossible to do anything major as yet. No money, no building materials, no time. But when the reeds were cut in January, Mr Thrower was going to ask the various authorities for permission to retimber the roof and rethatch it. At least it would be a start.
Returning to the cottage, the four of them and Fluster ran up the garden path and burst into the kitchen, to find Mrs Thrower making up the sofa as a bed. She turned and beamed at them as they entered.
‘Had a good run round, then? Now off with you lads, so Tess can get herself into this here sleepin’ bag, which baffle me.’ She turned to Tess. ‘Are you sure you can get inside of it, my woman?’
‘I’m sure,’ Tess said, whilst Cherie giggled. ‘And don’t you laugh, Cherie Delamere, or you’ll find yourself sharing your bed!’
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Cherie asserted. ‘If you didn’t mind Ginny and Fluz sharing as well, of course.’ She bent and plucked the kitten up from its perch on the hearth. ‘Come on, Ginny, beddy-byes! Come on, Fluster, you’ve had your run, now you must settle down.’
‘She need somethin’ to cuddle,’ Mrs Thrower said a little defensively when the boys and Cherie had clattered up the bare wooden stairs. ‘You know me, I don’t believe in treatin’ animals like humans . . .’
‘I remember the times you told the boys and Jan that you wouldn’t feed a pet animal whilst there was a child in need,’ Tess said. ‘What happened to change your mind?’
‘Oh, I’m a bit older ’n’ wiser now,’ Mrs Thrower said, pulling a fat pillow out of the side cupboard and placing it at the top of the sleeping bag. ‘And Cherie, she need pets. Your stepma din’t bring her up to show much . . . but you can cuddle a kitten or a dog without feelin’ self-conscious. I in’t a lot of good wi’ words, Tess, but I reckon you an’ my kids had suffin’ poor Cherie don’t – an’ I don’t mean parents, either.’
‘Love,’ Tess said, struggling out of her cardigan. ‘Why not say it?’
‘Oh, well, as to that . . . now come on, get undressed do it’ll be mornin’ before I see you squoze down in this here contraption.’
So whilst Mrs Thrower laid the breakfast table, Tess undressed and climbed nimbly into the sleeping bag, then squiggled on to the sofa.
‘There you are!’ she said, laying her head on the pillow with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Good-night, Auntie Bess; sweet dreams.’
Whether it was the moonlit walk, or the enormous supper, or simply being rather restricted by the sleeping bag Tess could not have said, but as soon as her lids closed she plunged straight into a dream. She was walking up the short drive to the Old House with the moon at the full shining down upon her, and the wind in the trees making gentle music – she almost recognised the tune though it was too soft for positive identification. She got to the front door, but it was closed, and though she knocked and thought she heard someone moving within, no one came to let her in. Even in the dream this did not worry her, however. She simply set off round the side path towards the back door. I’ll go inside and then we can talk, she found herself thinking. It’s been a long time – we’ll have such a lot to talk about!
Half-way to the back door, however, she was stopped short. She paused, puzzled, then tried to walk forward again, only to be prevented by what she realised was a vast glass wall, which reared, sky-high, from the house right down to the Broad. Perplexed, she retraced her steps, then turned and hurried forward once more. Again the glass stopped her.
Baffled and beginning to be a little afraid, she banged on the glass, which quivered and shivered and gave off a rather menacing, plangent note, and as she did so the back door opened and someone came out.
It was Mal! He was wearing a huge, off-white woollen sweater and stained and shabby trousers, clothing she had never seen on him before, but she would have recognised him anywhere, though she saw, with a small sense of shock, that he was limping as he hurried towards her.
‘Mal! Oh Mal, you’re all right! Oh, my darling . . .’
The glass wall stopped him, as it was stopping her. He stared, as she had, then walked back a few paces, turned . . . and ran at the wall. She screamed; she knew what would happen, saw him collide with the invisible barrier, stagger back, hands to his face, blood running . . .
And woke.
‘Well, my woman? Hev a good night?’
Mrs Thrower had pulled back the kitchen curtains, riddled the fire, put the kettle on, and Tess had slumbered right through it. But now she sat up, rubbed her eyes and yawned.
‘Fine, thanks. I had an odd dream very soon after I lay down which woke me up, but I went back to sleep quite quickly, and didn’t wake again till just now. Oh, isn’t it lovely to wake to a fire? First one up at the farm has to do all the things you’ve just done. It makes me feel wickedly luxurious to lie here and watch the flames flickering!’
Mrs Thrower chuckled. ‘Wickedly luxurious – what a one you are, Tess! Hens are layin’ well – want scrambled egg on toast? Wi’ fried tomatoes on the side?’
‘Oh, please,’ Tess said, heaving herself out of the sleeping bag. ‘Can I have some water? I’ll take it through to Cherie’s room – bet she isn’t up yet.’
‘You’d be wrong, my woman,’ Mrs Thrower said placidly, heaving the big iron kettle off the fire and pouring steaming water into a blue-and-white enamel basin. ‘She’s back at school, remember, wi’ a bus to catch. She in’t come through yet, but she won’t be long.’
And indeed, when Tess, clothes clutched in one hand, the bowl of water in the other, shuffled into Cherie’s tiny cupboard of a room, her sister was up, dressed and brushing her hair, peering at herself in the tiny round shaving mirror which Mr Thrower had hung on the wall as a concession to her femininity. She saw Tess’s reflection as she came through the doorway and turned to smile at her.
‘Morning, Tess! I’ve got double maths for the first two periods, would you believe? So Stella and I have bagged seats at the back and we’re going to get on with our knitting whilst Miss Wicklow drones on. I mean, if I’m going to finish that baby’s coat
ever,
I need to spend some time on it.’
The baby coat in question, made out of a carefully unravelled pink jumper which had once been Tess’s pride and joy, had been under construction ever since war had been declared and was still far from finished.
‘What about maths, though? From what I remember of your last report it isn’t exactly your best subject,’ Tess objected. ‘Oughtn’t you to concentrate on your sums, poppet?’
‘No. I’m useless at maths and trying to teach me is a waste of time and effort, Miss Wicklow has said so many a time,’ Cherie said with unimpaired cheerfulness. ‘What are you doing today, Tess? Coming into the city? Staying with Auntie Bess?’
Tess stood her basin of water on the washstand, pulled off her pyjamas and began to soap herself with Cherie’s tiny sliver of pink soap. ‘Dunno. I had a weird dream last night, I might . . . I might just walk up to the Old House and have a look around. If I come into the city, though, I’ll meet you after school and we can come back together. How would that be?’
‘Oh, wizard,’ Cherie said, her face brightening. ‘I’m ever so proud of you, you know, Tess. I tell everyone you’re my sister!’
Tess laughed. ‘I’m rather proud of you, too,’ she said lightly. ‘Now do get a move on, poppet, or you’ll miss your bus.’
The Old House looked sad rather than frightening with the soft September sunshine lighting up its damaged façade. Tess walked quietly up the front path, then patted the rosy old bricks beside the front door.
‘Poor old place,’ she said softly. ‘What a thing to happen after three hundred years! Never mind, as soon as we can we’ll put you back in order again. You see, you’ll be good as new.’
She was still standing there, her hand on the warm bricks, when the most extraordinary thing happened.
The telephone rang. Quite loudly and distinctly, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, the telephone bell tinkled out its message that someone was trying to get in touch.
Tess jumped for the front door, only to find it locked and, presumably, bolted. The phone rang on. With her heart banging so loudly that it almost deafened her, Tess tore round the side of the house, half expecting a glass wall to rear between her and the back door. But she reached it without obstruction and grabbed the handle. It turned, but when she pushed there was a moment’s resistance before it creaked slowly open.
Tess dived across the room and up the short hall to where the telephone had once stood on its small, half-moon table, but even as she entered, the ringing stopped. And the table wasn’t there, anyway, it was one of the many pieces of furniture now in the repository in Norwich.
I’m going mad, Tess told herself. The telephone wasn’t ringing, it couldn’t have been, it isn’t even here! But she walked up the hallway to make completely sure, and when she had checked that neither the half-moon table nor the instrument itself were in the hall, she turned, about to retrace her steps, feeling frightened now as well as puzzled. First she had the oddest dream she had ever heard of, and now she was definitely hearing things. Unless, of course, it was a ghost, but whoever heard of a ghostly telephone?
She was walking back down towards the kitchen when the ringing started again.
Trrring-trrring, trrring-trrring
. And there was the telephone, sitting on the fourth stair from the bottom, covered in dust and dirt but definitely ringing. Tess dived for it and snatched the receiver up in mid-ring, then held it to her ear.
Nothing. Or . . . or was that breathing? She went cold, icicles of fear prickling up and down the nape of her neck. She was suddenly absolutely certain that there was someone on the other end of the line, simply breathing softly, waiting for her to make a move.
The receiver was half-way back to its rest when it occurred to Tess that the first thing one usually said on picking up a ringing telephone was ‘Hello?’ Perhaps the caller was waiting for her to speak! Hastily, she clapped the receiver to her ear and spoke into the mouthpiece.
‘Hello? Er Barton 123 . . .’
‘Issss thatttt Misss . . .’ – a spluttering cut the weird, other-worldly voice off in mid-sentence.
‘Yes,’ Tess said baldly. The voice, since it had rung the Old House, must want to speak to either Cherie or herself. ‘Who’s speaking?’
‘I’mmm frommm RAFFFF . . .’ splutter, hiss, cackle, went the line. And then, almost miraculously, cleared for a moment. ‘I believe you’re a friend of Pilot Officer Chandler?’
‘Yes! Oh, yes,’ Tess said shakily. ‘Have you . . . is there . . .?’
‘He’s in a POW camp in Germany,’ the voice said matter of factly. ‘I’ve been trying to ring you for the besttt parttt offff threeeee dayssss . . .’
The voice tailed off into unendurable crackling, which ended abruptly with a click and a buzz; they had been cut off. With wet and shaking hands, Tess replaced her receiver. She was dizzy with delight, faint with incredible, almost unendurable relief and happiness. She stared down at the dirty telephone for a moment, trembling like a leaf, then raced out of the back door, down the path, along the lane and into Staithe Cottage, where Mrs Thrower was making bread and covering the kitchen with a light dusting of flour.