Jenny's War (7 page)

‘That’s right, sir,’ Kitty, who was Lincolnshire born and bred, agreed. ‘And then it’s supper if you want a snack just ’afore bedtime.’

‘You don’t arf talk funny,’ Jenny said.

‘So do you,’ Kitty countered, but she was smiling as she said it.

Jenny giggled and said in her cockney accent, ‘You’re ’avin’ a giraffe.’

‘A what?’

‘A giraffe. A laugh.’

Kitty laughed too and answered in broad Lincolnshire dialect. ‘Aye, an’ I reckon you’m as wakken as a rat, young ’un.’

Jenny’s smile disappeared. ‘You callin’ me a rat?’ she accused.

‘No, no.’ Kitty flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’d never do that, duck. No, it’s one of our sayings. It means you’re as sharp as a rat. You know, clever. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

‘’Ave you got rats here? In the house?’

‘Not here,’ Miles said gently. ‘On the farm, yes. But Ben has a little dog that’s a very good little ratter. He catches them.’

‘We could do wi’ ’im at home. We’ve got two in our roof. I ’ate ’em.’ As she stuffed more food into her mouth, she was aware of the grown-ups exchanging glances.

As they were finishing the first course and Mrs Beddows was serving the pudding, the back door opened and a young man stepped into the kitchen.

‘Leave your boots outside, Master Ben, if you don’t mind.’

Ben – with dark brown hair and soft brown eyes – smiled sheepishly and disappeared for a moment, returning wearing just his thick socks. He padded to the kitchen sink and washed his hands before sitting down at the table. He glanced across at Jenny and smiled. ‘Hello.’

Jenny didn’t answer but just stared at him.

‘This is Jenny. She’s come to stay with us for a while,’ Charlotte explained. ‘She’s from London.’

‘Oh yes. I heard about children coming here from the cities.’

‘Jenny – this is Ben.’

‘I’ll show you around the farm sometime, if you’d like,’ he offered, but still there was no response.

Jenny dropped her eyes lest the young man – in fact, all of them – should see in them that she had no idea what a farm was. She’d seen pictures, but she’d never visited a real farm. And, so far, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go outside any more. The flat landscape and the huge skies were scary for the city child.

During the afternoon, Charlotte showed Jenny the nursery on the first floor next door to the room where she was to sleep.

The girl gazed wide-eyed at the toys, books and games on the shelves and in the cupboards. In the centre of the room stood a rocking horse and in one corner stood a beautiful doll’s house. The whole front opened in two doors, revealing tiny furniture and the family of dolls looking rather as if they were just waiting for someone to play with them.

‘You can play with all the toys and if there’s anything you need, Jenny, you only have to say.’

The girl looked up at her sceptically. ‘What do I have to do for it?’

Charlotte blinked and looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘At home, if I gets a treat – sweets or anything – I have to stay in me room or go to the pictures with Bobby. You know, stay out o’ the way.’

Charlotte stared at the child and shook her head slowly. Huskily, she said, ‘You don’t have to do anything. We just want you to be happy here and if there’s something you want, we’ll do our best to get it for you.’

Jenny’s chin trembled. ‘I want to know where Bobby and Sammy’ve gone.’

‘Who are they?’ Charlotte asked gently.

‘Me friends. They live next door to us. Me an’ Bobby play together.’

‘Did they come on the train with you?’

‘Yeah, but we got to a station and we all had to get off, but then they got back on the train and we got on another one that brought us here. I – I don’t know where they went.’

‘I’ll ask Mr Tomkins for you. He might know.’

‘Will yer?’

‘Of course. I’ll see what I can find out for you.’

‘Ta, missis.’

‘Charlotte . . .’ the woman reminded her gently.

But the tentative steps towards understanding were shattered when, after dinner or tea or supper, or whatever anyone in the household now wished to call the evening meal, Charlotte insisted on Jenny having a bath.

‘Can’t you leave it for tonight?’ Miles whispered. ‘Let her settle in a bit first. Get to trust us.’

‘Miles, the child is filthy. I really can’t.’

Miles sighed and shrugged.

‘Come along, Jenny,’ Charlotte said kindly, but there was a note of firmness in her tone now. ‘Time to get ready for bed.’

The girl followed her, dragging her feet, but when Charlotte headed for the bathroom Jenny stood at the top of the stairs, hanging on to the banister.

Charlotte ran the bath water until it was about twelve inches deep. She turned off the water and came out on to the landing, holding a large jar in her hand. Jenny was still standing where she’d left her. ‘You can have some of my special bath salts. They smell lovely.’

‘Don’t want to.’

Charlotte continued as if the girl had not spoken. ‘And I’ve some lovely shampoo that will make your hair shine.’

Jenny’s glance took in Charlotte’s black hair that looked so sleek and well cared for. It was very different from her mum’s brassy, dyed hair with its dark roots. She took a step towards the bathroom and then another. Charlotte waited patiently until Jenny was in the room.

‘Would you like me to help you undress?’

Jenny hesitated. Her cold heart melted a little under Charlotte’s gentleness. All the jibes about her dirtiness that she’d suffered at school, about her ragged clothes, about the livestock in her hair, even about her mother and the uncles began to fade. She stared at Charlotte and decided to succumb to whatever the next few minutes held. She nodded.

‘Right, let’s take your plimsolls off first.’

Jenny held up her feet one after the other and then raised her arms as Charlotte peeled off the thin, faded cotton dress and lastly her knickers.

‘Missis,’ Jenny whispered.

‘Charlotte,’ she was reminded.

‘Charlotte,’ the child repeated after her, feeling shy at using the Christian name of a grown-up.

‘Yes, dear?’

‘I – I think I’ve got – things – in me hair.’

‘Not to worry,’ Charlotte said cheerfully. ‘We’ll give your hair a good wash in the bath and get rid of them all, shall we? And then perhaps if I comb your hair with a special comb—’

‘You mean a nit comb?’

‘Er – well – yes, but that would do the trick. Anyway, let’s wash it first and see how we get on.’

Jenny blinked. This woman – a real lady in the young girl’s eyes – wasn’t throwing up her hands in horror or treating her as if she was something untouchable. Her puzzlement must have shown in her face for Charlotte smiled and said, ‘I was brought up on a farm, Jenny. A few nits don’t bother me, I promise you. In fact, my father still lives at Buckthorn Farm. Maybe we can go there one day and I’ll show you all the animals.’

‘Have you got pigs and hens?’

‘Yes,’ Charlotte put out her hand to help the girl into the bath, ‘and cows. You can watch them being milked, if you like.’

Forgetting just what was happening as she chattered about the animals, Jenny put her hand into Charlotte’s and climbed into the warm water. ‘I ain’t never seen a cow. Only in pictures.’

Charlotte began to soap the child’s body, wondering at the bruises she saw on the girl’s arm, but she knew better than to ask. Jenny submitted to the washing with good grace. In fact, she revelled in the smell of the soap and the bath salts. But when Charlotte asked her to lie back and have her hair washed, Jenny began to scream and thrash about in the water, sloshing it over the side of the bath on to the floor.

But Charlotte pressed on, talking soothingly to her all the time.

‘I’ll drown,’ the girl screamed.

‘I won’t let your head go under the water, I promise. But don’t wriggle so. I’ll get shampoo in your eyes.’

Charlotte was stronger than the girl had bargained for and though she was getting soaked too, she lathered Jenny’s hair and rinsed the shampoo off three times. Then she combed it with a fine-toothed comb, struggling to pull it through the tangled locks without hurting the child. But all the time, Jenny screamed and splashed.

The bathroom door opened and a merry voice called, ‘Need any help, Charlotte?’

‘Georgie!’ Charlotte exclaimed. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

At the sound of the man’s voice, Jenny stopped shrieking and stared up at him. He was tall with fair, curly hair and blue eyes that sparkled with fun and laughter. He stepped through the water flooding the floor and squatted down beside the bath, holding out his hand. ‘Hello, I’m Georgie. I’m very pleased to meet you. Would you like me to dry your hair for you, while Charlotte clears up all this mess?’

Jenny considered for a long moment then she smiled suddenly, quite unaware of the difference her smile made. It was like the sun appearing from behind a stormy sky. It transformed her mutinous little face, turning her into a pretty child in the blink of an eye. She nodded and then clambered to stand up.

Charlotte wrapped the huge white towel round her. ‘Take her to the nursery. Kitty’s been busy all morning cleaning it and lighting a fire in there. It should be cosy by now.’

As Georgie picked her up and carried her from the bathroom, Jenny wound her arms around his neck and clung to him. He carried her into the room Charlotte had shown her earlier – the one with all the toys that she’d been given permission to play with. The little girl from the poorest streets in the city could hardly believe her good fortune. The only thing she hadn’t liked in this household so far had been the bath. But now, as the handsome young man sat down on the hearth rug beside her in front of the fire, she had to admit – though only to herself – that it was nice to feel clean, and so cosy and warm too.

‘Now,’ Georgie was saying, ‘let’s get that hair dry.’

Jenny sat patiently whilst he rubbed her hair with a warm, dry towel.

‘My, what pretty blond curls you’ve got,’ Georgie murmured.

Jenny giggled. ‘You sound like the big, bad wolf in “Little Red Riding Hood”.’

Georgie laughed too – a deep chuckle that made Jenny smile all the more. ‘Oh dear, do I? Well, I promise you I’m not a big, bad wolf.’

Jenny twisted her head round to look at him. No, she thought, he doesn’t look like a wolf. She liked the way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled – a smile that seemed to light up the whole of his face.

‘There, I think that’ll do,’ he said, giving her hair a final rub. ‘Now, have you got a nightie and dressing gown?’

Jenny shook her head.

‘Oh – er – right, then I’ll fetch a blanket to wrap you in. I won’t be a minute.’

Georgie left the room and returned almost at once carrying a blanket from his own room. When she was snugly wrapped in it he asked, ‘Shall I read you my favourite story? One that Charlotte used to read to me when I was little?’

Jenny stared at him without answering immediately. Then she asked, ‘Why d’you call ’er Charlotte and not Mum?’

‘Because she’s not my mother. My mother died when I was born and my father married Charlotte – ooh, let me think—’ he wrinkled his forehead – ‘about eleven years ago now.’

‘Is she your wicked step-muvver?’

Georgie threw back his head and laughed. ‘Heavens, no. Charlotte is the sweetest, kindest woman you could ever meet.’

‘Has she got any children, then?’

Georgie’s face sobered and he whispered sadly, ‘No. She and my father would love to have children, especially’ – now he smiled wistfully – ‘a little girl. My father always wanted a little girl, but he only got three boys.’

‘Didn’t he want you, then?’

For a moment Georgie looked shocked at her question. ‘Oh yes, of course he did. He’s never, ever made any of us feel unwanted.’ Just in time, Georgie stopped himself from saying, ‘Not even me when my poor mother died giving birth to me.’ The girl was too young to be burdened with such thoughts. But Jenny was a lot more streetwise and knowledgeable than he gave her credit for and she tugged the young man’s heartstrings when she said, in a matter-of-fact manner, ‘I haven’t got a dad and my mum didn’t want me. She ses I’m her little mistake.’

Georgie didn’t know what to say, but his arm tightened involuntarily around her. After a few moments, he cleared his throat and said, ‘Now shall we find that book and I’ll read to you?’

Jenny scrambled up. ‘I’ll get it. What’s it called?’

‘
The Wind in the Willows.
It’s over there on the bookshelf. That one right at the end. That’s it. You’ve got it.’

Jenny picked it off the shelf and carried it carefully back to Georgie. Then she sat down on the rug beside him.

‘Have you read this before?’ he asked.

Jenny shook her now-drying curls and Georgie paused to marvel at their silky softness and at her bright blue eyes. And when she smiled her cheeks dimpled prettily. She was going to be a beauty when she grew up.

‘Nah, Mum never reads to me. Miss Chisholm does, though.’

‘Who’s Miss Chisholm?’ Georgie asked, visualizing a kindly, elderly neighbour who took pity on the child. The young man could sense her loneliness even without being told details of her home life.

‘My teacher. She brought us here on the train, but she’s gone back to London now.’

‘Really?’ Georgie was surprised. ‘I’d heard that teachers were staying to help out at the schools.’

Jenny shrugged. ‘Well, Miss Chisholm isn’t.’

She looked down at the book expectantly and so Georgie opened it and began to read. Jenny snuggled closer to him, resting her head on his chest and putting her thumb in her mouth.

His voice was deep and soothing and soon Jenny was drowsy. Georgie stopped reading the story and looked towards the door. Beneath her drooping eyelids, Jenny saw Charlotte and Miles standing there.

‘We’re reading,’ Georgie said.

‘So we see.’

They came into the room and stood looking down at Jenny and Georgie sitting on the rug.

‘I think it’s time she went to bed,’ Jenny heard Charlotte say and though she would have liked to have argued to stay up a little longer, she really hadn’t the energy to resist.