Tommy Glover's Sketch of Heaven (19 page)

I mix the ink at school, and its camphoric smell reminds me of writing, and the letter I'm still waiting for. I am something of a celebrity, of course, the centre of a murder mystery, a mystery that has hung over this village for years. And every face, at every inkwell I fill, looks at me in that searching way they did when I first arrived: trying to read me for some clue.

The Heaven House boys are back in school today, so they have taken some of the pressure off me. It seems some man from the council came round to Lady Elmsleigh's and told her she had to return them all to the boys' home, or else. Mr Fairly was a free man, because all charges had been dropped. Of course everyone wants to know if it's true – what he's supposed to have done – and all the boys are saying it is, but it didn't happen to them personally. And no one can find anyone it
did
happen to, or exactly what ‘it' is, although there are all sorts of interesting stories of Nazi-style torture. It is not long before Mr Fairly becomes a Nazi, after all, and not a child molester: it's just that the police can't see it. By home time he is Hitler's right-hand man, and we are all immensely sorry for the Heaven House boys, having to go home to him for tea.

*    *    *  

In the days that follow there are strange goings-on in the Shepherd household. My first suspicion that something different is afoot comes with a peculiar little ritual just before Aunty Joyce makes our Ovaltine one evening. She thinks I can't see her, because I am deep in a comic, but I do.

She takes a very bright white towel from a pile of laundry and lays it on Uncle Jack's knees. Then she kneels before him, takes his hands and lays them on it, stroking his hands on the towel and, as he watches incredulously, she lifts his hands and turns them over, and strokes the back of them against the towel too. He says not a word, but lets her continue, laying her own hands on the towel where his have been, and performs the same ritual. “Now I'm clean,” she whispers, leaning back on her heels and closing her eyes in relief.

When I look up officially from my comic, Aunty Joyce has a definite spring in her step as she puts on the milk to boil.

The following evening it happens again, only this time, something even stranger happens after I've gone to bed.

I'm woken in the night by a curious whimpering noise. I get up and open my door carefully, but it becomes clear that the noise is not coming from their bedroom, but from downstairs. I tread very gently on the landing and lean just far enough forward to see over the banister into the parlour.

There, in front of the range, Aunty Joyce is sitting in the bath, her slender back towards me. Her shoulders are shaking, and I can tell she is crying. And that's not all – I can barely believe what I see – Uncle Jack is kneeling beside her, sponging her down. He dips the sponge in the lightly steaming water and squeezes it gently over her shoulders. And this is the oddest thing: his eyes are full of tears. And he keeps saying the same thing over and over in a voice high-pitched with sorrow: “Not dirty, Joyce … not dirty …”

*    *    *  

March turns to April, and still no letter. The school holiday is short and barely noticeable. There is blackthorn blossom appearing above the hedges and, from my bedroom window, the evening sun slants low over the back field, giving every blade its own blaze of green and shadow. The wireless hums sad love songs downstairs and competes with the frenzied twitter of a few excited birds.

The evenings are getting lighter now, and this mock summer sunset reminds me so much of last summer that I ache with grief at the thought of empty sunny days to come.

A couple of giant rabbits are on the back field. The largest one circles the other and then quite suddenly leaps into the air on long, outstretched legs. He continues to make wide circles, then goes for another wild leap, and I realize that it is not a rabbit at all, but a hare. My first mad March hare – and in April. I envy its joyous bounding into spring. For some reason it gives me a nauseous memory of Betty Chudd with her tight blouse, and Nancy the land girl with her loose one. At the same time there is something exciting – almost dangerous – about this crazy energy that appears from nowhere and races off into the undergrowth without a trace.

In the middle of April I get a letter, written in Tommy's unmistakably neat hand.

I am thrilled. Apart from those from my mother, it is the first letter I have received in my life, addressed solely to me. I parade it around school, I show it to Aunty Joyce, I read it to Babs Sedgemoor, and she reads it back to me.

I write back straight away. Some silly mushy stuff about love and marriage that probably makes him tear it up the moment he gets it. At any rate he's not in a hurry to reply. The days stretch on uneventfully.The countryside slyly unfurls its greenery when we are none of us looking, so that all of a sudden a green mantle appears on every stem and bough, and those mighty green tunnels sweep me off my feet again like they did when I first arrived.

I get out last year's old flattened cardboard and Babs and I go sliding down the slope in the buttercup fields. It hasn't rained for two days and the grass is just right for sliding. We race and tumble all the way to the bottom, sending sheep bleating in all directions. As we scramble back up to the top, inspecting our vehicles for sheep shit, Babs sings “Tommy Glover's gone to sea, Silver buckles on his knee, He'll come back and marry me – ”

“Neville Adlard's gone to sea,” I start, teasing her about the boy she likes in our class. “Neville Adlard's done a wee …” We are giggling so much we can hardly stand up, when someone comes walking up to us.

“Hello, Kitty.”

It is Mr Fairly.

We both stop giggling, and say nothing in reply. It's an odd place for him to come walking.

“I'm glad I found you here. You heard from Tommy, I hear?”

I swallow hard, and look at Babs.

“Yes,” I say. I can't imagine why I feel the need to reply to him. Because he is a grown-up, I suppose. There is something imposing about him, and neither of us could dare to be rude to him, although we would like to be.

He smiles and scratches the corner of his mouth. “I wondered if you might give me his address.”

I feel cornered.

“She can't,” says Babs. “He's gone to sea.”

“Ah yes!” He nods, as if he knew this already, then takes out of his top pocket a slim bar of Cadbury's chocolate. Babs and I stare at it. “He told me … what was the name of the ship again …?”

“I can't remember,” I say nervously.

He fingers the chocolate bar and we both look at it longingly. “HMS
Charlotte
, wasn't it?”

“No – HMT – A –” I clap my hand over my mouth.

Mr Fairly smiles, “Ah, Merchant Navy,” and hands over the chocolate.

“I don't want it, thank you,” I mutter.

“I'll 'ave it!” says Babs.

I'm shaking by the time we reach the lane, although the sun is out and there's hardly any breeze. To my shame, I scoff half of the chocolate with Babs, but afterwards I feel like retching.

Hitler is dead, and the war has been as good as over for ages. Everyone says so. I really can't see why I have to stay here now.

Then on the first of May everything changes.

I'm woken, along with everyone else in Sheepcote, by a bugle call. It turns out to be Mr Tugwell, who played his bugle in the last war. But this time he is signalling the beginning of May. At school there are flowers everywhere, and at playtime we are all ushered out to line the main street and cheer a motley procession of children who have been practising for some weeks. But then again, they have been practising with Miss Miller …

They spill out of the school porch and skip or run towards the school gate: little girls in long-discarded bridesmaid dresses with rumpled skirts and boys in grubby tennis shoes. Miss Miller organizes them into two raggedy lines behind Mr Marsh's milk cart festooned with flowers. They fidget with excitement as the May Queen emerges from the school entrance hall, accompanied by her two maids-in-waiting, and processes towards the waiting cart. The May Queen is huge: tall and plump with widely spaced grey teeth, a full bosom, and a white 1920s dress several sizes too small, swathed in tiers of torn and crumpled chiffon. She carries a posy of forget-me-nots and may blossom, and on her head she wears what appears to be an entire basket of flowers.

The small crowd cheers and putters out a dry clap as she clambers into the back of the cart (‘Sheepcote Dairy: Fresh Every Day') assisted by two far prettier maids-in-waiting with wild flowers woven in their hair.

At first the horse fails to move and the two lines of children, primed for movement in a forward direction, collide with each other and skip back to their places. A concertina, which has started up, fizzles out. Miss Miller looks unperturbed and rallies them all again, trying to achieve two lines from a clump of giggling children now all practising their own steps on the spot.

As the cart moves off, the children start a ranting step behind it, clattering cymbals and triangles, but soon lapse into running, skipping, and movements all their own. The queen is now revealed in her full splendour, her fat, white-socked feet in brown sandals and her knees squatly apart. It is Betty Chudd. When we all reach the village green Mr Marsh stops the cart and Boxer lifts his tail and does a giant dollop of poo. The dancing children come to a halt and chant, “We come to greet you, O Queen of the May!” and watch as she steps down from the cart, assisted by her two pretty maids. The children skip on to take positions around the maypole, while the queen steps in the horse dung.

“Ah, fuckit!” she cries.

Miss Miller urgently orders some music, and eight children skip around the maypole at a colossal speed to a lone concertina. The pole lists violently to right and left, and the ribbons are woven into an impossible tangle. We all roll about giggling, and even Boss Harry has to cover his face. Babs and I laugh so much we almost cry.

*    *    *  

It is a day when I swell with pride for my little village, and the day when I learn I must leave.

When I get home for dinner (blossom stuck all over the place in my hair and in my cardigan buttonholes), I find Aunty Joyce and Uncle Jack in the back garden, hugging. She is pink-faced with crying, and he seems to be almost in tears too. I catch words like ‘poor thing' and ‘not fair' and ‘Burma'. Or else it could be ‘Birmingham'. Burma and Birmingham are pretty interchangeable to me, and it is not until much later that it makes any sense.

When they see me, they hurry in.

“We had a letter today,” says Uncle Jack. “From your mother.”

I notice an opened letter on the green baize tablecloth, and reach out for it. Aunty Joyce snatches it away and puts it high up on the dresser.

“Yes … you're going home! Your mother's coming next week – a week tomorrow!” There is a fake breeziness about her tone, and I vainly take this to mean that she doesn't really want me to go. “Aren't you pleased?”

The truth is, I'm not sure if I am. After all this longing for it, I'm not sure where home is now. There is only a pile of rubble waiting for us in London. And all my friends are here. All except Tommy.

“Is Dad coming home too?”

Aunty Joyce swallows hard and glances at Uncle Jack. “You'll have to ask your mother about that, poppet.”

So I'm a poppet, now. I should have guessed something was up.

“How are we going to get there? By train?”

Uncle Jack reaches out his big brown hand and wraps it over mine. “First Class. I'll make sure of it.”

*    *    *  

Over the next few days everyone starts to save up their sugar rations. There is a feverish excitement about the end of the war. They are saying it down the grocer's, at knitting group, at school. The war is as good as over. But I'm not sure what to get excited about. I've never known life without ‘the war' so I can't picture what it will be like. It seems that something huge is about to happen – something like a volcanic eruption or a tornado – but no one can tell me exactly what. The war will be over and there will be jelly to eat and street parties, and we'll all go back home to live in houses that aren't there. Babs says the shops will be full of sweets and ladies will wear lace again. But I think she says this to cheer herself up, because, unlike the rest of us, she can't look forward to seeing her parents again.

Lots of the evacuees say they don't want to go home. You can see a sort of panic in some of them at the thought that lives they had grown used to will suddenly be turned upside down. All over again.

There is an air of holiday about school on Monday. Outside the smell of baking and warm sugar fills the air. Girls and boys have replaced their shoelaces with red, white and blue tape; anything remotely like a Union Jack has been hung from the ceilings; Boss Harry announces every hour that the news of victory is due in the next hour. We are still waiting when we go home, clutching our hastily drawn paper flags down by our sides.

In the evening the wireless tells us that the Germans have surrendered to the Allies, but that it will not officially be VE day until tomorrow. By pub closing time it is clear that a group of soldiers and airmen stationed nearby have decided to celebrate anyway. A couple of home-made explosives go off. A few rowdy whoops and shouts can be heard right up the lane well into the early hours. But most of us wait until Tuesday, when the cakes have cooled down, the toffee is rock hard and the jellies are well and truly set.

We wake up to the sound of a bugle – Mr Tugwell again, competing with the dawn chorus. By breakfast time the streets are already buzzing, and Aunty Joyce and I add an urgency to our colouring as we finish some home-made bunting. Even then, we wait until eleven when Uncle Jack finishes his shift.

We are standing by the front door, the three of us laden with baked goodies, when Uncle Jack turns to Aunty Joyce and says, “Go and put your best dress on – the one with the pink flowers.”

She looks at him quizzically.

“G'won!” he says, without smiling. “Quick though.”

She looks like a schoolgirl who has just won a prize, and she scampers upstairs to change.

The street party must be like millions all over the country: makeshift tables all along the green outside the pub; all the WVS women running about with more cakes and sweet stuff than any of us could dream of; men who should be working bringing booze out of the pub; servicemen still drunk from the night before; someone hammering out all the sentimental tunes they can think of on the pub piano with half the village joining in.

At three o'clock a portable wireless is brought out and turned up very loud, so that we all hear the official announcement. Then all hell breaks loose. Someone starts up a human chain that snakes around the tables, someone else wheels the piano out of the pub and starts to play ‘Roll Out the Barrel', moving seamlessly into ‘Pack Up Your Troubles' and ‘Tipperary'.

The entire village seems to have joined in. I'm clutching on to Babs (who's dressed as Maid Marian for a fancy dress competition) and she's clutching on to Neville Adlard (who's miraculously dressed as Robin Hood – so
she's
happy). Behind me a Norwegian refugee is holding my waist and singing at the top of his voice. Will Capper climbs on to the last war memorial and waves a flag and a bottle of beer. Then everyone starts linking arms and swaying back and forth to ‘Bless 'Em All.'

I notice Uncle Jack standing with his arms folded, looking on disapprovingly. Aunty Joyce is trying to tidy the mess on the tables, and is pushing chairs in so that no one will fall over.

Suddenly a jeep full of land girls arrives, all dressed in their civvies.The piano changes to ‘In the Mood', a couple of trumpets join in, and every girl is grabbed by a man as soon as she sets foot on the road.

Then the music stops mid-tune.

First the piano, then the wind section, which has grown to the size of a small rhythm band. Everyone looks about. Through the noises of bewilderment some shouting penetrates.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” It is Uncle Jack. “This is a disgrace! Listen to yourselves!” People go quiet to listen. I shrink into my dance chain. For a moment I can't bear anyone to know that he is in any way connected to me. “There are plenty of people in this village who have lost loved ones – some only recently – and here you all are making a rowdy mockery of their suffering. This is meant to be a
thanksgiving
for victory, not a riot! Have you no
shame
? Have you no
respect
? You might as well dance on their graves!”

There is a split second of total confusion, and then Mrs Marsh pipes up: “I've lost two sons in this war, Mr Shepherd – and maybe three! I respect what you're saying, and it's very good of you to think of us, but I say, let's thank God no
more
of our young men will be killed now! Let's have a bit of
joy
for once! All these young people fought the same war as my sons and they deserve it! We all deserve it!” She turns to the piano. “Come on! Get playing!”

Well! He doesn't know which way to turn. I wriggle out of my dance chain and go to him. Aunty Joyce is there too, looking awkward. I feel suddenly sorry for Uncle Jack. I'm sure it was people like Mrs Marsh he was trying to protect, and now he feels a right Charlie. I take his hand and oddly he looks down at me as if he might cry.

“Go on,” I say, putting his hand on Aunty Joyce's pink-flowered waist, “you heard what she said!”

I start to push them around to the music, which is now ‘When April Showers …', and they begrudgingly shuffle around with me holding on. A couple of bystanders cheer, and when it comes to “
It isn't raining rain, you know
…” I look directly at Aunty Joyce, and she smiles, and we both sing “
It's raining violets
!” and everyone else shouts it out too.

I fondly imagine that the little red rings around Uncle Jack's eyes are on account of how moved he is that I have fixed things for him and Aunty Joyce, and I feel dead pleased with myself. Are those tears glistening in the lower lids? – Yes, they are. He is looking at me as if he is about to burst with love, and it is all because of me.

Then I leave them, and watch them holding on to each other, swaying gently in an afternoon that reeks of beer and spring and new beginnings.