Sons and Daughters (47 page)

Georgie stood up, looking harassed. He hated leaving the child like this, but he’d no option. He had to go.

‘I’ll try to get home again as soon as I can, even if it’s only for a few hours. In the meantime – good luck!’

Shaking his father’s hand and kissing Charlotte’s cheek, he ran down the front steps to the waiting pony and trap which they were already making more use of in an effort to save petrol.

‘There are going to be shortages,’ Miles had warned her. ‘Just like in the last lot.’

Now, as they stood helplessly watching the writhing little body on their hall floor, shortages, rationing and all the coming privations they were sure they were going to feel, were nothing in comparison to this sad little girl so far from home.

Eventually, the sobs subsided and Miles, instead of being cross, merely held out his hand and said, ‘Shall we go and see if we can find Ben and help feed the chickens? It’s about time they were having their tea. Perhaps we could help feed the pigs too.’

Jenny stood up, scrubbed away her tears with the back of her hand, and marched towards the front door, Bert’s legs dangling from her arms. Miles winked at Charlotte and followed the child.

The following weeks were not easy, but gradually Jenny seemed to be settling down. The first time they took her to morning service, Osbert Crawford descended from the pony and trap and stood looking down at the child standing between Miles and Charlotte.

‘What on earth have you got there?’

‘Father – this is Jenny Mercer. She’s come to stay with us for a while.’

‘An evacuee?’ Osbert snorted. ‘A
girl
? Couldn’t you have got a boy? At least a boy would have been useful about the farm.’

‘We wanted a little girl,’ Miles said firmly, putting his hand on Jenny’s shoulder.

‘Huh! What use is a girl?’ Osbert eyed the child and sniffed.

The little girl returned his frown steadily and then, to Charlotte’s secret delight, Jenny stuck out her tongue at Osbert, turned and marched ahead of them all into the church.

‘The cheeky little urchin,’ Osbert growled. ‘I’d horsewhip her if she was mine.’

‘Then thank goodness she isn’t,’ Miles said sharply and followed Jenny inside.

Osbert hobbled after them, but Charlotte was obliged to wait outside for a few moments longer – until she had controlled a fit of the giggles.

There were still tantrums, tears and a stubborn, scowling face when something didn’t suit her, and Jenny flatly refused to go to the local school.

‘I don’t like the other kids. The ones what live ’ere, I mean. They call us “vaccies”.’

‘Do they, indeed?’ Miles said grimly. ‘Then I shall have a word with the teacher.’

‘Nah, don’t do that, mister. It’d only make it worse. Kids don’t like telltale-tits.’

Miles couldn’t bring himself to make her go, but the child’s non-attendance bothered Mr Tomkins.

‘It’s our responsibility,’ he told Miles anxiously on one of his weekly visits to check on Jenny’s progress. ‘She must go. Unless, of course . . .’ He hesitated.

‘Unless what, Mr Tomkins?’ Miles prompted.

‘Er, well, I wouldn’t dream of suggesting such a thing in normal circumstances. Funds won’t run to it . . .’

‘Out with it, man.’

Diffidently, as if he expected to be sent packing with the proverbial flea in his ear, Mr Tomkins said, ‘Unless you could arrange for her to receive her schooling at home.’

But Miles’s face brightened. ‘Of course. What a good idea. And perhaps there’s more we could do here. I’ve heard tell that the school is so overcrowded with the influx of all the evacuee children that some of the pupils are only going for half a day. Is that true?’

‘I – believe so.’

Miles beamed.

‘We’ve plenty of rooms here not being used. We could – with the help and approval of the Education Authority – set up classes here. That way, Jenny would have some playmates and all the children would get their proper schooling.’

‘It
sounds
like a good idea,’ the man agreed. He was thoughtful for a few moments before saying, with a degree of increased interest, ‘Let me make some enquiries and I’ll get back to you.’

Events moved swiftly; the authorities were only too pleased to accept any help they could get, especially if it came from a reliable and well-organized source.

‘There’ll be inspectors calling. You understand that?’ Mr Tomkins said earnestly, trying to make sure that Miles and Charlotte knew just what they were taking on.

‘I wouldn’t want it any other way,’ Miles reassured him. ‘And we’ll do everything in our power to comply with whatever they want.’

So before long, the manor was overrun with noisy children running riot in the grounds and clattering through the hall to the dining room, which had been turned into a schoolroom. Mrs Beddows was in her element, cooking nourishing meals – only Wilkins wore a perpetually worried expression, but even he at last began to feel that he was ‘doing his bit’ to help the war effort and stopped feeling so guilty that he was too old to volunteer.

As for Miles and Charlotte – they revelled in every minute of it. Miles couldn’t wait for lessons to end when he could round up all the children – about a dozen of them, locals and evacuees, plus Jenny of course. Then he’d lead them out on to the front lawn to referee a rowdy game of football. Charlotte timed her visits to Buckthorn Farm when the children were at their lessons so that she could be on hand to bathe a grazed knee or to play with those who wanted a quieter pastime, or just read a story aloud to a group.

Jenny seemed to settle in a little better. The tantrums grew less frequent and she began to smile more than she frowned. But her most often asked question was not, as they might have expected, ‘When am I going home?’, but ‘When’s Georgie coming home again?’

Christmas that year was strange – as if everyone was waiting for something to happen. Several of the evacuees who’d arrived at the beginning of September returned home when the expected air raids did not happen.

But no one sent for Jenny.

The whole family was home for the festivities, but it was Georgie whom Jenny monopolized.

‘She doesn’t give him a minute’s peace,’ Philip muttered, adamantly refusing to join in a game of charades.

‘Oh come on, Phil, old chap. Lighten up.’ Georgie laughed. ‘The poor little scrap’s miles from her home – her family. Come down off that high horse, just for once, eh?’

‘Mm.’ Philip frowned and regarded the little girl for a moment, before giving an exaggerated sigh and throwing down his newspaper. ‘Very well, but only because it’s you asking, Georgie. This family’s never been able to refuse its golden-headed little cherub anything, now, has it?’

It was a merry Christmas, despite the thought at the back of everyone’s mind that the waiting for the war to begin in earnest could not last for ever. Early in April the ‘phoney war’ came to an abrupt end when Hitler invaded Denmark and Norway. Then, at the beginning of June, news filtered through of the evacuation of the British Expeditionary Force from Dunkirk.

Now, it seemed, Britain stood alone and only the RAF could protect its shores and its people.

Charlotte felt a cold terror creep around her heart.

One Saturday morning in June when there were no lessons and no other children came to play, Jenny went missing.

Miles was beside himself. ‘Where can she be? Oh Charlotte, she wouldn’t try to go to the beach, would she?’

‘She doesn’t know the way, does she?’

‘I’ve taken her a few times. She might.’

Charlotte thought for a moment and then shook her head. ‘I don’t think she’d go on her own. She’s still a little nervous of the great outdoors and you said she found the vastness of the sea scary at first.’

‘But Georgie takes her every time he comes home. She’s not so frightened now. She just might have thought she’d go on her own. We must get everyone searching. And I mean everyone. Wilkins, Brewster, Cook, Kitty and all the men on the farm. Let’s send word to Eddie, too—’

‘Calm down, Miles. Let’s not panic. We haven’t even searched the whole house yet.’

‘D’you think she’d go into the town? Try to get on a train home?’

Charlotte shook her head then gave a thin smile. She was as worried as Miles, but she was trying not to show it. ‘If she has gone there, it’s more likely she’s looking for Georgie coming home.’

Miles’s face brightened. ‘Maybe she has. I’ll get Brewster to drive into—’

‘Wait a minute, Miles. Let’s search here first. She’ll come to no harm. Not in Ravensfleet.’

‘You’re right. Of course you are. But, Charlotte, I couldn’t bear it if something’s happened to her.’

Charlotte touched his arm and said softly, ‘I know, I know.’

The child had wound her way into both their hearts, but Miles was besotted with her. Little Jenny was fast becoming the daughter he’d always longed for. But Charlotte was fearful for this man she loved so very much. Jenny wasn’t theirs. Never could be theirs. She had a mother back in London who, one day, would want her daughter home again.

Despite, Jenny’s offhand remarks about her mother’s ‘fancy man’ and feeling that she was in the way, Charlotte could not understand any mother not wanting her child close by.

And yet, a niggling little voice reminded her, didn’t your own mother run away and leave you? Not all mothers are the kind Charlotte knew she would be, she told herself.

She dragged her thoughts back to the present anxiety. With greater calmness than she was feeling inside, she said, ‘Let’s do this in an organized way. Not running around in circles like headless chickens.’

‘You’re right. I know you’re right, but . . .’ Miles ran his hand through his hair again.

‘We’ll search the house first, from top to bottom. Everywhere – every nook and cranny and then, if we haven’t found her, we’ll extend the search outside and rope everybody in.’

Miles nodded. ‘Where shall we start?’

‘Down here and work our way upstairs.’

‘I’ve already looked in her bedroom and the playroom. She’s not there.’

At that moment, Wilkins appeared in the hallway carrying a tray and Miles dispatched him at once to ask Mrs Beddows and the housemaid to join in searching the house.

After only a few minutes, whilst they were still searching the first floor bedrooms, they heard the maid, Kitty, calling from the top landing.

‘Sir – madam, she’s up here.’

Miles galloped up the stairs with the agility of a man half his age, with Charlotte running up behind him as fast as she could.

Kitty was waiting for them at the top, her eyes anxious.

‘Is she all right?’ Miles asked urgently. ‘Where is she?’

‘She’s fine, sir, but – but it’s madam’s studio. Such a mess she’s made. There’s paint everywhere.’

‘Oh no,’ Miles breathed as he turned to Charlotte. ‘Please, my dear, don’t be angry. Whatever she’s done, I’ll get it all cleaned up, I promise.’

Charlotte linked her arm through her husband’s and smiled up at him. ‘Let’s go and see, shall we?’

The sight that met their eyes took their breath away and they both stood in the doorway, their eyes roaming round the scene of devastation. Charlotte had not had time to paint recently, with all the extra work the children brought, and she hadn’t been into her studio for almost a fortnight. The damage that Jenny had wrought had not been done in one day, nor even two or three. She must have been creeping up here for quite a while. The linoleum floor was splattered with paint and there were splashes on the white wall. She’d even used one of the walls to paint a childish picture on, when she’d run out of paper.

Pieces of paper, all covered with daubs of paint, littered the floor and Charlotte’s precious canvases had been used, too. Open tubes of oil paints and watercolours oozed on to the desk and the table by the window and dirty brushes, caked with dried paint, were strewn around.

‘Oh Jenny,’ Miles began, sadly, but Charlotte squeezed his arm quickly and whispered, ‘Don’t, Miles, don’t chastise her.’

The girl was standing in front of Charlotte’s easel, wearing the white smock which Charlotte herself used to protect her clothes.

That’s why we’ve never seen paint on her clothes, Charlotte thought. I’d never have guessed. There’ve been no telltale signs. But there were plenty now. The child’s fingers were sticky with blue oil paint and she had a streak of the same colour down her cheek. With a loaded brush poised in front of a canvas on the easel, she glanced up at them standing by the door and grinned.

‘Hello, I’m painting a picture for Georgie.’

Charlotte took a deep breath and, leaving Miles standing by the door gazing helplessly at the carnage, she crossed the room. Smiling, she said, ‘How nice, darling. May I see?’

She stood beside the child and together they scrutinized the canvas. Cerulean blue streaked the top part of the picture with the darker cobalt blue below it. Beneath that was yellow ochre.

‘Why, it’s the beach,’ Charlotte said, and was rewarded by a beaming smile from the artist.

‘I want some green for that spiky grass, but I can’t remember what to mix.’