War Orphans (9 page)

‘Rubbish! Animals helped us in the trenches, you know. We used them as messengers. Even used them to take ammunition where we were too afraid to go. A lot of them died doing their duty to their country. Did you know that?'

Sally eyed him intently. Her father's disposition and behaviour had changed a lot since her mother died. Up until this moment
getting a conversation, let alone a response out of him, had been like pulling teeth. Even the declaration of war had failed to elicit a strong reaction.

As she sat there in the dying afternoon, her heart lurched in two different directions. In one way she found it odd to accept that his first positive response to anything was with regard to a dog. On the other hand, at least he'd responded to something.

‘I loved that old dog, you know. I wouldn't have put him down. He was my pal.'

Sally squeezed his hand. ‘Come on. Let's get over home and have some supper.'

She didn't press him as to whether he'd actually made it to the allotment and dug up the flowers her mother had loved. She didn't nag him that he really should be preparing the ground for vegetables. It was enough that, just for a change, he'd made a thoughtful comment rather than mutter a morose response.

They walked together up to the house, each dwelling on their own thoughts.

Joanna Ryan still loomed large in Sally's mind and so did Arnold Thomas. Both of them deserved her pity. She would help Joanna if she could. But as for Arnold, the further she stayed away from him the better it would be for the both of them.

Approaching the front door, Sally was vaguely aware of a man standing on the pavement, a piece of paper in his hand. He appeared to be scrutinising the front of each house, looking for a specific address perhaps?

Suddenly he spotted them and almost sprinted along the pavement.

‘Excuse me. I wonder if you could help me. I'm looking for a Mrs Gertrude Evans.'

‘Two doors down.' Sally pointed to a bay villa very similar to the Hadley house except that its window frame and front door hadn't been painted for some time.

‘You'll have to give the knocker a hard rap,' Sally called out. ‘Mrs Evans is a war widow and a bit deaf.

She fancied his eyes swept over her, which only made her cringe: what was it with men today? All she wanted was to be left alone.

The living room at the back of the house was warm and cosy. Adjoining the living room was the scullery. The front room with its polished linoleum floor and woollen rug in front of the fire was only used for best.

Sally laid the square dining table in the centre of the living room while her father gave the fire a poke then took his pipe down from its rack and began stuffing it with tobacco.

Sally turned on the wireless. Once it was warmed up they might have some music before the news came on.

Their normal routine for that evening would have been to eat, drink tea and, while her father listened to the radio, Sally would attend to the homework the children had completed the week before. But tonight a loud knocking on the front door interrupted the evening calm of their routine.

The inner door, the one glazed with blue-and-red glass, was closed but she could see a figure on the other side, standing on the doorstep. The fragile glass trembled as she pulled it open. She recognised the man who had asked for directions to Mrs Evans' house.

‘Can I help you?'

Occupied with her own thoughts from their earlier encounter, she hadn't expected to be smitten by the man's appearance. He was quite tall and had broad shoulders. His eyes were like dark pools and had an exotic look about them. His eyebrows were dark too and a small scar nestled like a question mark on his cheekbone.

His smile brightened the evening.

‘I'm sorry. I came to see Mrs Evans. Her son said she was distressed about her cat. I believe it recently had kittens. She needed them to be taken off her hands.'

‘Oh!'

His beaming smile crumpled. ‘Ah. That exclamation sounds like bad news. Am I too late?'

‘Are you one of them?' Her tone was brusque.

His eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Them?'

‘Yes. A member of the organisation responsible for taking pets away and destroying them.'

‘They have already gone?'

‘So I've been told. Do you get paid by how many you take for destruction? Or so much per leg perhaps? Four legs multiplied by—'

‘I do not.'

‘Just a salary then!'

Her anger was unabated. That poor cat. Those poor kittens.

He hesitated as though disinclined to respond, but instead he found himself wanting to impress her.

‘I do not need a salary, I have a private income. Though I have tried a number of professions. In time I will find the one that suits me best. It is best to do work at what you enjoy, then it is not work, yes?'

Sally frowned, not so sure now that she should be angry but unwilling to back down just yet.

‘And in the meantime you're collecting pets for the government's destruction programme.'

‘Not at all. I'm here on behalf of my aunt, Lady Ambrose-DeVere. She has it in mind to rescue as many animals as she can.'

‘Rescue?'

‘That is her aim. She has a very big house and outbuildings and will take in as many as she can. She is also rich and not without influence. I have come from France to help her.'

Sally took a breath. She'd heard his voice, noted the careful way each word was spoken, but his accent was almost perfect, and she didn't notice the way some of his words were inflected until he called her attention to it.

‘I'm sorry. I had no business speaking to you like that. It's just that . . . well . . . all this turmoil. So many have been taken. They're probably already dead.'

The man shook his head sadly. ‘I agree with you. It is a great pity. This is a very sad time.'

‘I'm sorry I mistook you for one of those people who put them to sleep.'

His eyes twinkled. ‘There is no need to apologise. I enjoyed fencing words with you but hope I never have to fight you with a sword. Your words are sharp enough.'

‘I'm sorry. I really am.'

She felt her face reddening, not just because she felt a fool but because of the way he was looking at her.

‘You said your aunt is Lady Ambrose?'

He nodded. ‘That's right. My aunt has set up a facility providing safety until such time as this madness is over. I was going to offer Mrs Evans a place for her animals. We do our best to find homes for them . . .'

Although full of sadness his voice was warm.

‘So you're from France?'

He inclined his head. ‘That is where my home is, yes. Brittany.'

Feeling tongue-tied, Sally could only nod in response.

He smiled at her. ‘I had better be going.' He looked as though a sudden thought had crossed his mind. ‘Can I leave you a card just in case you hear of any other person wanting sanctuary for their animals?' He took out a pen from his jacket pocket and scribbled something on the back of it.

Sally wasn't aware of anyone close to her having a cat or dog but she took one of the cards anyway. The name on the card was Lady Ambrose-DeVere. The house was Ambrose House, a place she knew was surrounded by acres of land and a high wall; she had only glanced at from the top of a double-decker bus.

‘I will bear it in mind. I only knew of her as Lady Ambrose. I didn't know there was a French connection.'

An intoxicating laugh rumbled in his throat. ‘For better or worse, there really is. I am from the DeVere side of the family.
I know France better than I know England. In fact you could say that I am a stranger here. I know nobody.'

‘Hopefully you won't be a stranger for long.'

What he said next took her completely by surprise.

‘Excuse me for asking, but would you like to have dinner with me one night?'

To her own surprise, Sally found herself saying yes without hesitation.

He looked pleased. ‘Tomorrow? I have a car. We will go into town? Yes?'

Yes. She couldn't help herself. She said yes.

After he'd gone she turned back into the house, heading for the living room at the back in something of a daze. What in heaven's name had happened out there on the doorstep?

Her father was sitting in his chair reading the newspaper and so failed to notice the dazed look on her face. For him, nothing would appear to have changed. Jerking herself back from romantic musings, Sally turned her attention to the mundane surroundings that she was so used to. The potatoes were boiling away on the stove, the steam rising in a thick fog to hang in cooled droplets on the ceiling. The fact that he'd done nothing to save them from being overcooked annoyed her, yet she didn't have it in her heart to reprimand him. Her mind was preoccupied with the dark-eyed man she had only just met who had asked her out. She had so readily agreed. What was happening to her?

Her father didn't bother to look up and ask who it was at the door. Usually she accepted that this was the way he was and didn't bother to tell him. On this occasion she couldn't help herself. She had to share the experience with someone.

‘That was a Frenchman at the door. He's the nephew of Lady Ambrose-DeVere. She's opened her doors to unwanted animals. He's asked me out to dinner and I've accepted.' She glanced at the card he'd given her. He'd scribbled his name on the back. ‘His name's Pierre.'

Her father grunted his familiar response but didn't look up. She knew from experience what he was plotting to do. Since the death of her mother, her father had shadowed her movements, petulant if she should dare leave the house on an evening. A night at the cinema, a dance or even an evening at a friend's house, she could guarantee her father would be waiting outside for her. On some occasions he had insisted on escorting her there.

‘He has a car,' she said boldly. ‘So there's no need for you to chaperone me there and back.'

She fancied the fingers holding the newspaper stiffened appreciably.

Although he said nothing, she knew he was displeased. She also knew this behaviour had to end – whatever it took.

School dinner consisted of slivers of gristly meat, potatoes and cabbage. Dessert was baked apple and custard.

Joanna very carefully cut the beef into portions before sliding each piece under the table and into the handkerchief nestled in her lap. Once that was done, she bolted down the cabbage and potatoes, mashing it into the gravy.

‘I could do with seconds,' she said to her friend Susan after hiding the handkerchief in her pocket.

The two girls put up their hands when the teacher supervising the meal asked if anyone wanted seconds.

‘Only those with a clean plate,' Miss Hadley stated, her keen eyes surveying the flock of upraised hands.

Joanna's plate was as clean as clean could be and Sally noticed her upright hand. ‘Only six at a time to come out for second helpings,' she added nodding in Joanna's direction.

Joanna couldn't believe her luck when she was one of the first to be picked. Once she had secured a second portion of meat, potatoes and cabbage, she hurried back to the dinner table she shared with fourteen other children. Just as before she cut the meat up into cubes and, after eating one or two herself, took the handkerchief from her pocket. After scraping off the gravy a few more portions of meat went into the handkerchief. After that she wolfed down the second helping of potatoes and cabbage.

‘I hope you're going to have room for apple and custard after all that,' said a voice.

Joanna started. Miss Hadley was behind her looking very pleased indeed.

‘Yes, miss,' murmured Joanna. The fact was that, having only eaten potatoes and cabbage, she had plenty of room. The meat was for the puppy. He hadn't eaten since she found him and she was desperate to get to him.

The afternoon lessons seemed to drag. Joanna glanced at the wall clock, willing its hands to move faster. The days were drawing in, October fast turning into November. There wouldn't be much time to clean the shed today, but at least she could feed the little puppy. Hopefully he would find his way to the clay pot tray where she'd poured some water, but she couldn't help wondering how he was. He hadn't opened his eyes when she'd left him. What if he didn't recover? What would she do then?

She thought of the dead flowers on the allotment at the front of the shed. Here and there an odd bloom was still flowering bravely, though not very many. One or two flowers would be nice to place on his grave, if she had to.

Susan called out to her as she raced away from school. ‘Hey! Wait for me.'

But Joanna couldn't wait. She ran faster, keen to get away from Susan's chatter and the possibility she might ask questions and tag along with her. She spotted a familiar figure playing conkers outside the entrance to the boys' school.

‘Can't stop, Paul,' she shouted as she ran past him as fast as her legs could carry her.

She was vaguely aware of his puzzled frown before he returned to knocking out his opponent. But still she couldn't stop. Not even for him.

By the time she got to the allotment a thick fog had descended turning what greenery remained from the long hot summer to a chill dull grey. The air was still. Even the crows in the bare branches of the trees were silent. Sheds containing gardening
tools loomed out of the mists like lopsided sentry boxes guarding nothing more than rows of vegetables and gooseberry bushes.

She tripped over an upended bucket used to force rhubarb to grow. The handkerchief containing the bits of meat fell out of her pocket, the contents scattering on the ground.

‘Oh no!'

The earth was soft beneath her knees. It was all about the meat and keeping it clean and wholesome for the puppy to eat – if he was still alive. Diligently, her breath steaming from her mouth, she picked up every last piece of meat and gristle retied her handkerchief – more securely this time. Cupping it with both hands, she hurried for the shed.