Safe Harbour (10 page)

Hugh had a few days off school after the accident, and Sophie walked the few minutes there and back on her own. In a small corner, deep inside her, she hid her loneliness and fear.

Grandfather and Sophie barely spoke to each other nowadays. They were polite for appearances’ sake, but a clear battleline of dislike divided them firmly.

Nancy shook her head in bewilderment. ‘For a slip of a thing, you’re a right stubborn lassie, Sophie! Make it up with him! He is your grandfather, after all, he deserves some respect!’ But Sophie would stick her head in whatever library book she was reading and ignore the unwanted advice.

Hugh was puzzled about it all but he knew that Grandfather still blamed Sophie for what had happened. The old man refused to listen to Hugh’s explanations, saying that he was too young to understand responsibility.

Aunt Jessie had written back to Sophie. Her letter was the only thing that had made Sophie smile for a long time. She was helping with the lambs and the calves and she sent a photo of herself standing like a farmer’s wife in amongst the livestock. She had visited Mum and said the doctors were very pleased with her progress. She also mentioned that Dad might be due some home-leave soon. How Sophie longed to see them all again.

Grandfather insisted that they were to have swimming lessons now that the sea was getting warmer. Each day they went down to the small dock area, once the tide was in, where a very jolly woman called Virginia gave them lessons. Up to now Sophie had only splashed and waded in the water, or jumped up and down in it. But she loved the way her body floated in the salty water, her arms and legs feeling so light, as Virginia looked on.

‘Sophie! I think you might be part mermaid!’ joked Virginia.

Sophie laughed, but secretly felt it too. The sea was her friend and learning to swim was giving her such happiness, she couldn’t believe it.

Hugh found it harder. He would dog-paddle frantically, grabbing at Sophie in a panic. Virginia or Sophie would keep a hand under Hugh’s tummy, helping him to stay up in the water, or hold his chin so he wouldn’t swallow big gulps of water.

‘You must relax and keep calm in the water!’ the teacher told him over and over again.

Hugh was determined to learn. Grandfather had forbidden him to put a foot in a boat again until he could swim.

The war was getting worse. The Germans had bombed Coventry, destroying factories where British planes were made. Now Greece and Yugoslavia were being taken over by the German Army. Bit by bit, it seemed, every part of
Europe was becoming involved in the war, the fighting spilling from one country to the next. Ireland was only across the sea from England – what would happen if Hitler and the Germans decided to take Ireland, to use it as a base to attack England?

‘How long will it go on, Grandfather?’ asked Hugh.

‘Who can say, child, but from the way things are going, probably a whole lot longer than any of us ever imagined.’

‘Oh!’ said Hugh. Sophie was unsure if her brother was disappointed or not.

America was helping Mr Churchill to get food and supplies to England, and Grandfather reckoned it wouldn’t be too long before Russia would become embroiled too.

The announcer’s voice was unusually sombre one evening as he announced that London had been bombed very badly the night before and that thousands had died. Please God let Mummy be safe, prayed Sophie, silently, relieved to be far away from the city. The British had bombed Berlin, so now the Germans had bombed London again. It was a tit-for-tat war they were playing, and Sophie couldn’t understand it.

‘In Belfast …’ the announcer continued.

Sophie gasped. ‘Belfast!’

Grandfather put down his pen to listen.

‘… for seven hours, the important harbour and docks area has been bombarded.’

They listened to the report of the huge damage inflicted by the Luftwaffe. Hundreds had been killed, thousands left homeless. Belfast – the city that built the ships for Britain in
its mighty shipyards – was totally stunned. Belfast was ablaze. Mr De Valera, the Irish prime minister, ordered ambulances and firemen and firebrigades from the south of Ireland to go to help.

A shiver ran through Sophie as she thought of London destroyed and now Belfast. The war was getting nearer. She didn’t want to feel scared again.

One afternoon Sophie came home from school to find Nancy crying. Dirty delph and dishes lay piled in the sink. Something was burning in the stove. Nancy was sitting hunched up in the middle of it all.

Sophie stood at the kitchen door, unsure of what to do or say. ‘What ever’s the matter, Nancy?’ she asked.

Nancy began to sob louder than ever, a huge gulping kind of crying that seemed to go through every bone in her body.

‘Nancy, please! What’s wrong?’

The housekeeper looked up – it was as if she hardly saw Sophie standing there. ‘All hands lost! That’s what the telegram said,’ she intoned in a strange, dead kind of voice. ‘No hope of survivors.’

Sophie gasped. It must be her brother Frank. He was in the British Merchant Navy.

‘Frank attacked by a U-boat, blown to bits in the ocean – food for the fishes!’ Nancy wailed.

‘Don’t say that, Nancy!’ pleaded Sophie, grasping her by the hands, ‘he could still be alive, floating in the water. A friend of my father’s survived after a mine blew his boat up. He floated in the sea for two days with his lifebelt till they found him.’

‘He’s gone! I can sense it. Me and Frank – you know
there’s only a year and a bit between us. People used to call us the twins when we were small.’ Sophie could understand that. Nancy had shown her a photo of a smiling red-haired young man, and they were the image of each other.

‘And like twins we always had a sense about each other. He’s left this life. I can tell it. I have this empty feeling here in the middle of my stomach.’ Nancy began to wail again.

The kitchen door opened and Hugh peered in. ‘What’s for tea?’ he asked.

Sophie glared at him.

Then Grandfather appeared. He looked weary as he came over to Nancy. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, so sorry about Frank. He was a good sort of fellah. Those north Atlantic waters are treacherous.’

‘Oh, Professor! What about my Mam and Dad? It’ll kill them!’

‘Sophie, put on the kettle for a cup of tea!’ he ordered, ‘and turn off that blasted pot of whatever is cooking.’

‘I’m sorry. I just totally forgot about the tea,’ apologised the red-eyed young woman.

‘Listen, Nancy, I phoned Dolly, and she and Maud are coming over. They’ll drive you back to Ashford,’ Grandfather told her gently. ‘Plenty of sugar in that tea, Sophie!’ he added.

Sophie and Hugh were then sent to the front room to keep watch for the car turning into the driveway.

They left their grandfather holding Nancy’s hand and talking in a way Sophie would not have believed possible. He seemed so kind and caring. Compassionate. Yes, that
was the word. It was a side of him that she had never seen before.

The car pulled into the driveway with Aunt Dolly driving. The children ran to tell Grandfather they had arrived. They watched as the adults helped the normally boisterous Nancy into the car as if she were an invalid.

‘It’s a time to be with your family, Nancy,’ said Grandfather. ‘So take as long as you need and don’t be worrying about us. We’ll manage.’

Sophie eyed him – why did he have to say that? She wished Nancy didn’t have to go. Then she felt selfish and guilty.

He nodded in her direction. ‘Young Sophie and I will keep things running ship-shape.’

Ship-shape indeed! thought Sophie. That probably meant him giving orders and herself and Hugh following them.

When the old car had set off along the seafront Grandfather banged the front door shut. ‘Young fellows dying for no good reason – that’s what this damned war is all about …’ They did not hear the rest as he slammed his study door in anger.

That night they had sandwiches, big chunky doorstep ones and mugs of milky cocoa, on their own in the kitchen. It made Sophie think of home, of London, of the shelters and of the awful sadness of war. 

Porridge for breakfast. That’s what they were to have every morning in Nancy’s absence. None of this messing around trying to fry things.

‘A big bowl of porridge to set you up for the day!’ That’s what Grandfather said.

Hugh hated it. He played with it, tracing the letter H on its thick gluey surface.

‘Makes you grow! Builds muscles!’ advised Grandfather.

But still Hugh would barely pick at it.

Grandfather doused his in salt from the silver salt cellar on the table. As a concession he let Sophie fetch the honey pot, shaped like a yellow beehive, with one quaint-looking pottery bee on it, and spoon a circle of runny gold onto the steaming porridge. At least that made it a little better.

The house seemed quiet and gloomy without Nancy. Sophie did her best to keep out of Grandfather’s way. He was in a strange humour – more lively, but often more grumpy too.

A woman who worked for Aunt Dolly came to help with the laundry two days a week, but the rest of the time they had to manage by themselves.

One afternoon the kitchen was full of strange smells and Sophie found Grandfather chopping up all kinds of things and putting them in a big pot on the stove – meat,
vegetables, apples, some nuts, spices.

‘Can I help, Grandfather?’ she volunteered warily.

‘Not now,’ he said. ‘But there will be plates and dishes to wash afterwards.’ Whatever was in the pot, it took ages to cook, and Sophie and Hugh were starving by the time he brought it to the table.

‘What is it?’ enquired Hugh, suspicious.

It smelt strong.

‘Just try it,’ chided Grandfather. ‘I used to have this many years ago. Here’s some chutney to mix in with it.’

Sophie thought it looked good. Hugh watched her as she put a forkful in her mouth. The taste was different – then within two seconds it seemed like her mouth was on fire! Even her eyes started to water. She wanted to spit it out but instead she forced herself to swallow it. Then she jumped up and ran to the kitchen for a glass of water to cool her mouth. She brought a large jugful back to the table with her.

Grandfather was amused, but she noticed that he too filled his glass to the brim and gulped it down. ‘Perhaps I was rather heavy-handed with the curry spices,’ he reflected.

Curry! That’s what it was! Sophie remembered her Mum teasing her dad if he made any negative comments about her cooking; she’d ask: ‘Well, will I make you a curry, then?’ Grandfather obviously used to make them when he was younger.

Sophie tried it again. It didn’t seem as hot this time, and the spicy taste – well, there was something that made you want to eat it; in fact, after a few tentative forkfuls, she actually began to enjoy it! Hugh ate the rice and picked at
the bits of lamb, but it was clear that he didn’t like it.

‘Eat up!’ Grandfather ordered.

Hugh ignored him.

‘Didn’t you hear me, boy? Children are going hungry all over Europe and you leave a plate of good food in front of you.’

‘I don’t want it, Grandfather, I won’t eat it! It’s disgusting!’ Hugh said with feeling, shoving the plate at the old man.

Grandfather glared at him. ‘I will not have good food wasted!’

‘Why can’t we have nice food, nice teas like my mummy used to make?’ Hugh demanded. Sophie detected a wobble in her small brother’s voice.

Grandfather softened. ‘Young man, I know I’m a poor substitute for your mother, but I … I’m doing my damned best!’

Sophie butted in. ‘Listen, Hugh, there are two eggs in the pantry and I’ll make some scrambled eggs in a few minutes.’

‘Boys that age – you forget their taste buds haven’t developed properly,’ muttered the old man. ‘Nursery food, that’s all they’re able for.’

Next day Aunt Dolly arrived with a steak-and-kidney pie which she reheated for them. Hugh ate an enormous portion, as if to make up for Grandfather’s cooking.

‘Jerome’s such a fancy cook,’ Aunt Dolly announced, as she ladled out the pie, ‘when he does cook, that is! Have you had his famous Indian curry yet?’

The children giggled and Grandfather blushed.

‘Now, don’t go making that fancy stuff, Jerome,’ chided
Aunt Dolly. ‘Good plain cooking is what’s good for you.’

After that, Grandfather more or less stuck to meat and potatoes, but he complained about how boring it was. Sophie felt he was irritated again by their being there – he couldn’t have things just the way he wanted them.

She discovered that Grandfather was very finicky about small things too. He constantly complained about the amount of sand the two children tracked through the house. ‘Clean up that sand!’ he’d bark at them, no matter how much they’d swept already.

But Sophie said nothing. After every meal she cleaned the dining room, insisting that Hugh help her clear off the table, and then she tackled the kitchen. Grandfather always left a terrible mess – used pots and pans were piled up, bits of gristle he’d cut off the meat were left lying about on the table, potato skins scattered on the chopping board, vegetable peelings in the sink. Yet he expected the kitchen, pantry and scullery to be gleaming when he’d inspect it later. It always took her ages to sort it out.

Then, she noticed some things beginning to go short in the pantry. They needed more sugar and tea, and another pot of honey for the morning porridge. She decided to make a list, but wondered should she give it to Grandfather? Would he be cross with her?

She propped the list up against the tea-caddy before going to bed one night, hoping he’d notice it. In the morning there was a note in its place: Provisions will be delivered by lunchtime. Jerome Fitzpatrick.

They were now truly like strangers, sending notes to each
other, Sophie thought sadly.

For two days Sophie and Grandfather avoided each other. Hugh was scared by the silence and enmity between these two people who were supposed to be minding him.

School was dull. The other children seemed to sense Sophie’s need to be alone, and they left her to her own devices. Sister Agnes called her to her desk after class one day. Sophie thought at first she had made some mistake in her schoolwork.

‘No, child!’ said the kindly old nun. ‘It’s nothing like that, but I do worry about you. You sit there with a faraway look in your eyes!’ Sophie blushed. ‘I’m not criticising,’ the teacher continued, ‘it must be very difficult being so far from home, but now that you are here, do try and give the school and your classmates a chance. We all need to have friends,’ she added, softly.

‘I have friends, lots of them, but they’re all evacuated too!’ protested Sophie.

‘You may be in Ireland for some time yet, Sophie. The war may go on for a long, long time. Why don’t you try to make things a little easier for yourself?’

But Sophie just wanted to be on her own. She spent a lot of her time walking up and down the seafront, watching the waves and the tides, or sitting on the rocks, or on the edge of the pier with the sea as her companion.

Hugh ran wild with his crowd of boys, a small thin figure trying to keep up with the rest of them as they messed around with the boats on the beach. She knew she should spend more time with her little brother – talk to him, play with him. So, one afternoon she called him. ‘Hugh! Will we go down to the beach to play?’

His eyes lit up, like a small dog being taken out for a long-overdue walk, and all along the way he never stopped talking.

They picked the biggest, best empty boat lying up on the beach and climbed in.

‘We’re going to a treasure island,’ shouted Hugh, pretending to be the captain. Sophie was his crew and had to take orders as the boat was attacked by pirates, an octopus and a shark, one after another – all of which the brave captain fought off single-handed.

Sophie wasn’t really in a pirate mood. She stared out across the water – on the far side was England, a country at war, while here in Ireland there was peace. Everything she loved and cared about was on the other side of that sea.

‘Sophie! What are you doing?’ interrupted Hugh peevishly.

‘I’m just thinking, Hugh, remembering.’

‘I find it hard to remember,’ he said, and a look of sorrow clouded his small freckled face. ‘Sometimes I think I’m going to forget Dad, the way he looks and talks.’

‘No, you won’t, Hugh!’ said Sophie reassuringly.

‘I remember the chips and sausages and the apple tart we had for tea the night before he went away, but I can’t remember what he said to me when I ran down to the gate
after him,’ Hugh sighed.

‘He said you were the best boy, the best son a man could have,’ said Sophie softly, ‘and he told me to take care of you!’

‘Or Mum’s face, her hair, what her eyes are like! I’m forgetting her too,’ he said anxiously.

‘No! You’re not, Hugh!’ Sophie told him fiercely. ‘I won’t let you forget them, I promise!’ This was what the war was doing, she thought, breaking up families, sending children away from the people they loved.

‘Sometimes I try to dream that things are back the way they used to be, just all ordinary again,’ he muttered, his face looking drawn and his bony knuckles white against the side of the boat.

‘I like “ordinary” too,’ sighed Sophie.

‘I do like Greystones, but that doesn’t mean I want to forget London,’ Hugh said firmly.

‘Of course not, silly!’ she joked, ruffling his hair.

Some instinct made Sophie look up, and in the distance she saw Grandfather out for his usual seafront walk. He had stopped and was looking down at them. Sophie pretended not to see his tall bulky figure and ignored the wave of greeting he gave her.

Hugh raised his head, following her glance.

‘Look, Soph! It’s Grandfather!’

‘Don’t wave at him, Hugh!’ she ordered crossly, ‘he might come down to us.’

Hugh looked puzzled. He would never understand it. His big sister and his grandfather never seemed to be able to get
along or even be nice to each other.

‘I think Grandfather is lonely too!’ suggested Hugh.

Sophie refused to answer. ‘Come on, Captain Hugh!’ she said, trying to distract him. ‘The crew is ready to set sail again!’

Hugh put his worries aside, and plunged back into the world of make-believe.