Jenny's War (13 page)

After a while, she heard voices below. She removed the apron and washed her hands in the sink, then she skipped back to the nursery just in time before Charlotte came looking for her. But whenever the house was quiet and she thought she wouldn’t be missed, Jenny went back to the studio. Charlotte didn’t seem to go up there very often at the moment, and the girl had the room to herself.

One Saturday morning when Miles was outside with Ben discussing farming matters and Charlotte was in the kitchen with Mrs Beddows, Jenny crept upstairs and shut herself in the room.

She wrapped herself in the apron that was now liberally stained with paint, fetched water from the tap and picked up the brush she’d been using. It had dried to a stiff point and the paint in the little pans had dried too. But she’d learned that if she stabbed the brush into the jar of water and wet the paint again, all was well. She wrinkled her nose as she looked around for a fresh piece of paper, but she’d used them all. She pulled out one of the canvases and squeezed the thicker paint from a tube labelled ‘oil paint’. She didn’t understand the difference, only that it was thicker than the watercolour paints and daubed very satisfyingly on to the canvas. Paint had splashed on to the linoleum and even on to the wall, but she knew it didn’t matter. This was an artist’s studio and she was now an artist, painting picture after picture for Georgie.

She heard voices downstairs calling, but she was so engrossed on trying yet another picture of the beach that she took no notice and carried on splashing the paint on to the canvas with sweeping, unrestricted strokes.

The door opened and Kitty peered round the door. ‘Oh my, what have you done?’

Jenny glanced up but the maid had disappeared and she heard her shouting, ‘Sir – madam, she’s up here.’

She heard the murmur of conversation on the landing and then Miles and Charlotte were standing in the doorway, gazing round the room. Jenny glanced around her too, seeing for the first time the state of the room through their eyes. Now she’d be in trouble. Perhaps they’d send her away for making such a mess, for using Charlotte’s paper and paints without permission. She took a deep breath and said the only words she thought would save her.

‘Hello, I’m painting a picture for Georgie.’ She held her breath, waiting for Miles to stride across the room and raise his hand to smack her, but he was standing in the doorway still looking about him. The look on his face was more anxious than angry and it was Charlotte who made the first move.

For a brief moment Jenny cringed, but Charlotte was smiling and coming towards her saying, ‘How nice, darling. May I see?’

She stood beside Jenny and studied the picture carefully. ‘Why, it’s the beach.’

Jenny smiled her most winning smile. ‘I want some green for that spiky grass, but I can’t remember what to mix.’

‘Blue and yellow. Here, let me show you.’

Jenny spent the next hour happily, with Charlotte showing her how to mix the different colours and by the end of that time, with Charlotte’s guidance, Jenny had produced a picture that was almost like the one in her head. The beach now had little white shells and brown pebbles. The sea was blue with white tips to the waves and the grass at the bottom of the picture was just the right colour. There was even a patch of dark green samphire.

‘Now, I think we’d better tidy up a bit, don’t you?’ Charlotte said gently when the picture was finished. ‘But I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll find a table for you and put it in the corner over there. Then you can have your own paints and brushes.’

‘And paper?’

‘And paper,’ Charlotte promised. ‘You can have your very own space in the studio. And you can come up here any time you like. How would that be?’

The child didn’t answer. Instead, she flung her arms around Charlotte’s waist and buried her face against her. Charlotte stroked her hair, feeling a lump in her throat as she remembered her own happiness when Miles had fitted out the studio as his wedding gift to her.

Georgie came home the following week. He arrived whilst the children were still having lessons, but he was waiting for her in the hallway when they skipped out of the dining room. Jenny’s eyes shone and her mouth formed an ‘Oh!’ of delight. ‘I’ve got a present for you,’ she said, when at last she found her voice. ‘Wait there.’

She skidded across the hall and tore up the stairs, returning only minutes later with her precious painting. Miles had had it framed for her in readiness for Georgie’s return.

‘That’s wonderful, Jen. My favourite place – the beach. We’ll go there whilst I’m home, if it’s fine.’

Later, he insisted that the picture should hang on the wall in his bedroom next to the one of the school in Ravensfleet, which Charlotte had painted, but the moment was spoilt by the arrival home of Philip.

Now Jenny would not have Georgie all to herself.

Over dinner, there was a strange tension between the family members that the child could not understand. All three brothers were at home and she’d heard both Ben and Philip admit that they’d joined up. This news had upset both Charlotte and Miles; only Georgie seemed pleased, slapping his brothers on the back and declaring that the war would soon be over now.

Jenny glanced from one to the other, aware of the atmosphere, yet too young to understand. But to her delight, Georgie was true to his promise. He had three days’ leave and he spent most of his time with her. He taught her to ride the second-hand bicycle that Miles had bought for her and even managed to persuade her to ride a little pony.

‘Don’t let go,’ she cried, clinging to him. ‘He might gallop off with me.’

‘No, he won’t.’ Georgie laughed. ‘He’s getting old now. His galloping days are over. But he likes to feel useful. He loves giving you a ride.’

When they arrived back home, Jenny asked, ‘Can we go to the beach tomorrow? Just the two of us.’

Playfully, Georgie tweaked her nose. ‘As long as it’s not raining.’

But when Jenny drew back her bedroom curtains her bedroom was flooded with sunlight and after breakfast, they set off.

‘Let’s see if the samphire is ready,’ he said as they mounted the hill, their feet sinking into the soft sand. He stood on the top and shaded his eyes. ‘The tide’s a good way out, that’s good. We’ll try over there. Now, we’d better take our shoes and socks off. We’ll leave them here in the sandhills.’

‘Won’t they get nicked?’

He glanced at her in surprise. ‘Eh? Oh no, they’ll be safe enough.’

‘I don’t want to lose my best shoes,’ she warned. ‘Charlotte bought me these and I’ve never had a brand new pair all of my own before.’ Her tone was quite matter-of-fact and she was quite unaware of the pathos in her words that made the brave fighter pilot swallow hard.

They collected the pegs and the white rags from the box hidden in the sandhills and then Jenny skipped beside him, holding his hand, across the sand and the mud to where the samphire grew on the salty marsh.

When they reached the place, Jenny asked, ‘Is that it? That green stuff.’

‘Yes, we’ll take some home and Mrs Beddows will show you how to cook it. But first, do you remember everything I told you last time about the tides? Charlotte taught me when we first came to live here, Jenny, and it’s very important.’

Jenny repeated everything he’d told her.

‘And promise me you’ll always be careful when you come to the beach?’

She looked up at him, still and quiet, aware of the seriousness in his tone. Jenny nodded solemnly. She would promise Georgie anything, but even the city child realized the importance of what he was telling her.

For half an hour they picked the fleshy plant, placing it in a basket to carry home. Georgie stood up and eased his aching back. ‘Come on, Jen. Time to go home, the tide’s coming in.’

But the promised cookery lesson with Georgie and Mrs Beddows was cancelled. When they arrived back home, there was an urgent message for him that all leave was cancelled.

‘I have to go back to camp now,’ he told Jenny as he packed his things into his kitbag. She stood in the doorway of his bedroom watching him. ‘Why?’

He came and squatted down in front of her. ‘Because I have to go and fly my plane.’

Jenny stared at him. Even she, young as she was, could see the haunted look in his eyes, the kind of fear that she’d felt when she’d first arrived here at the emptiness of the flat land and the wide open spaces, the huge sky above her head. She put her arms around his neck and her cheek close to his to whisper. ‘You will come back, won’t you?’

There was a moment’s hesitation before he said brightly, ‘Of course. Just try and keep me away.’ But it was a forced gaiety; even Jenny could recognize it.

Downstairs he said goodbye to the rest of the family. He picked Jenny up and swung her round before setting her down again. He ruffled her hair. ‘Be a good girl, won’t you?’

She nodded, unable to speak for the lump in her throat as she watched him hug Charlotte and then he was gone.

As the door closed behind him, Charlotte, her voice unsteady, held out her hand to Jenny. ‘Come, let’s go and cook that samphire.’

Britain and the Commonwealth now stood alone and whilst the Battle of Britain was being fought by the RAF over the south of England, Philip and Ben completed their basic training and managed to come home on leave before they were posted abroad. Miles had taken over the running of the farm and the estate during Ben’s absence but he was a reluctant farmer and happily handed back the reins, even though it would only be for a short time. Philip didn’t seem to want to do anything. He sat on the terrace reading the newspapers or just gazing into space, avoiding anyone’s company.

Jenny stood for several minutes watching him from behind a pillar on the terrace. She’d sensed – though at her tender age she was unable to put it into words – that Philip somehow didn’t fit in with the rest of the family. He seemed aloof and there was a definite constraint between Charlotte and him. Jenny knew only too well what it was like to feel lonely, to be the odd one out. She’d never felt as if she belonged anywhere. She was a misfit. At least, she had been until she’d come here, to the manor. Miles and Charlotte and Georgie – oh especially Georgie – had made her so welcome. Even Ben, in his quiet way, leading her around the farm, showing her the animals and how, if she always treated them with respect, there was no need to be afraid of any of them. Not even the big, lumping cows.

‘They’re gentle creatures, really, as long as you don’t startle them,’ he’d said in his soft voice. She couldn’t imagine Ben becoming a soldier and having to shoot the enemy. But Philip – she could imagine him being a major or something and leading others into battle. He was the sort who won medals. But today Philip looked lonely. Suddenly, she felt sorry for him. After all, he was Georgie’s brother and Georgie was fond of him, she knew.

Jenny had an idea. She crept away and ran up to the nursery, picked up a book and returned to her position behind the pillar. She stood again for several moments until the man became aware that he was being watched.

‘What d’you want?’

‘Georgie’s not here.’

‘No-o,’ Philip said slowly as she moved nearer.

‘And Charlotte’s gone to see that grumpy old man.’

‘Ye-es.’

‘And the mister’s busy, so – ’

‘So?’

Jenny tweaked the newspaper from his grasp and dropped it on the floor.

‘Will you read to me?’ She held out the book. ‘It’s the one Georgie gived me.’ She clambered on to his knee. ‘We’ve got to Chapter Eight where Mr Toad’s just been put in a dinjun.’

‘A dungeon,’ Philip said mildly.

‘That’s what I said – a dinjun.’ With Bert clutched under one arm, she put her thumb in her mouth, curled up on his lap and, resting her head against his shoulder, waited for him to begin.

Philip opened the book. ‘My mother used to read this to me.’

‘Your real mum? Not Charlotte.’

‘Mm.’ He was fingering the pages gently as if reliving memories from his own childhood. Then, slowly, he began to read.

‘You have to do the funny voices like Georgie does,’ Jenny ordered.

‘Ah yes. Sorry. I’ll try to do better.’ But his words were sincere. For once, there was no sarcasm in his tone.

Until his leave ended, Jenny monopolized Philip, who laughingly allowed himself to be commandeered into all sorts of escapades. He even joined in the rowdy games of football on the lawn after lessons finished.

But at the end of a week both he and Ben had to go too.

There were no lessons at the manor during the summer holidays, but by now Jenny had made one or two friends amongst the local children as well as her fellow evacuees. And she was more confident out of doors.

‘Can I come to Buckthorn Farm with you today, Charlotte? Alfie might be there.’ The two had become firm friends. The boy had almost replaced Bobby in Jenny’s affections. Almost, but not quite. Jenny still wondered where her best friend was. Despite Miles’s efforts, they hadn’t been able to find out where Bobby and Sammy had gone.

‘Of course, dear,’ Charlotte said.

‘I won’t have to see the grumpy old man, will I? He always frowns at me and tells me I should have been a boy.’

Charlotte laughed out loud. ‘He always told me that too.’

‘Why’s he always so grumpy?’ the child remarked but before Charlotte could think of a suitable reply, Jenny added, ‘I ’spect it’s ’cos he lives on his own.’

‘Maybe, but he’s got Mr and Mrs Morgan to look after him.’

‘I like Mrs Morgan. Do you think she’ll have any scones and jam and cream today?’

‘I’m sure she will. You can sit and talk to Mary whilst I see the – ’ Charlotte chuckled – ‘the grumpy old man.’

Mary Morgan was always as kind and as welcoming as Mrs Beddows and Jenny was soon seated at her scrubbed kitchen table, munching scones, the cream and jam spreading around her mouth. ‘Have you worked here long, Mrs Morgan?’

‘Years and years.’ Mary smiled as she beat a cake mixture with a wooden spoon. ‘I came here when Miss Charlotte’s mother was first married and I’ve looked after Miss Charlotte ever since.’