War Orphans (13 page)

Seb was stunned. Never before had Sally so vehemently stated the facts.

‘Well,' he said, looking disconsolately into the fire. ‘Now there's a way for a daughter to speak to her father!'

He waited for her to say sorry just like she always did. But on this occasion she did not.

‘Stay here feeling sorry for yourself if you like. I'm going to bed,' she said grimly. ‘See you in the morning.'

The door slammed behind her.

For a while Seb sat in front of the fire, his hands clasped tightly together, his eyes staring at the glowing embers but seeing nothing in them.

Although his heart was heavy, he didn't cry as he had on many other occasions when he dwelt on the memory of his dearly departed wife. Tonight Sally had voiced a truth that could not be denied: Grace would have pulled all those flowers up herself if she thought it could help feed the population and bring an end to a terrible war. Tomorrow he would do his best to honour her memory and begin doing what had to be done.

*   *   *

Sally lay awake for a while, listening for the sound of her father's footsteps coming up the stairs.

Before she'd met Pierre she would have felt guilty about spouting those words; in fact, she might not have said them in the first place. Things had changed.

Just one night in his company and Pierre's measured phrases and she knew him well. The way he looked at her, the half smile that lifted one corner of his mouth, had been familiar to her as breathing.

She knew beyond doubt that her life would never be the same again, and yet, not so long ago, he'd been a stranger in the street.

Falling asleep was difficult that evening. In her mind she was still in Pierre's company, going over what he'd looked like, what he'd said, what she'd said.

She could see Pierre smiling at her, his brown eyes warm with affection, his hair glossy and unsullied with Brylcreem.

When he smiled it was reflected in his eyes and when he spoke, his English slightly accented, his voice deep, she was lost.

And what he spoke. That floored her.

‘Is this love at first sight?' he'd asked her.

She'd been speechless. Not because it surprised her that he'd asked, but because she'd been thinking the exact same thing. That's the way they were, saying the same thing at the same time.

Her response to such a surprising comment was equally surprising, even to her.

‘No. It was love before we even met. We were just waiting for it to happen.'

And there it all was in front of her, as though they were the leading parts in a Hollywood romance. Not really, of course. The screen she was watching was in her mind. She replayed it time and time again, hardly believing that a doorstep conversation regarding a neighbour's cat could lead to this.

‘I will take you to meet my aunt,' he'd said before they parted that night. A sad look had come to his eyes. ‘She is very stalwart on the surface but beneath it her heart is breaking. There are so
many animals being abandoned. There has been little forethought behind this action and everything has happened too quickly. The aftermath has been quite horrible. So will you come with me,' he'd asked, the warmth returning to his eyes. ‘Would you come with me to meet my aunt?'

Her heart had raced at the prospect. ‘To meet your family?' It was so soon. ‘I would love to.'

His smile turned mischievous.

‘Ah. In England meeting the family is a precursor to marriage, is it not?'

Lying there in her bed, Sally lay her palm on her cheek, recalling how she had blushed and stammered some kind of reply that said nothing either way.

‘I am not asking you to marry me,' he said, looking amused at her discomfiture. ‘Not yet.'

Absorbed in her thoughts that were swiftly becoming dreams, she never heard her father climb the stairs to bed. Instead she dreamed of Pierre and her up on the silver screen, two lovers kissing passionately and living happy ever after.

Seb wasn't sure whether it was surprise or relief he read on his daughter's face the following morning. She looked surprised that he hadn't insisted on escorting her to school or given any appearance of doing so.

‘There's more bacon if you want it,' she said to him.

‘One slice is enough, under the circumstances.'

To Sally's surprise he began piling dishes into the sink. He was an old-fashioned man, the kind who had set tasks and took it for granted that washing dishes was woman's work.

‘You don't need to do that.'

‘It's not as though it's never been done before. In the last war, gender was no barrier to what job you ended up doing. Likely as not it won't be any different in this war.'

Sally wasn't convinced but held her tongue. She glanced at the wall clock. Time was getting on.

‘I'll see you later,' she said, before slipping out of the door.

Once he'd washed and wiped the dishes, Seb looked at his overcoat hanging on the back door. From there his gaze descended to a cast-iron boot scraper and the two pairs of boots standing next to it. He gazed at the larger pair of wellington boots, big and black with a thick sole. Grace's boots were still where they always had been when she was alive. They were black too, but lighter and shorter. He could almost imagine that she'd be along in a minute to pull them on – or off as the case might be.

He remembered laughing with her as they attempted to pull off each other's boots.

‘You're pulling my leg off!'

‘It wouldn't be the first time I've pulled your leg.'

Her ribald laughter faded like the echoing of a stone rattling along the gutter and into the distance, a moment lost for ever.

Then he thought about what Sally had said to him, about the war, about people needing to eat and what Grace would say about that: ‘
Come on, Seb. We can't sit around here leaving it to the youngsters. We have to do our bit.
'

He stared at the spot where the coat was hanging above the boots. He reached for the pair that fitted him. They felt comfortable, as though his toes were returning to greet an old friend.

Next was his overcoat, his scarf and his battered old trilby. With a feeling of anticipation that was almost fear, he opened the blue glass inner door, closed it behind him, then left the house, closing the heavy exterior front door behind him.

The early-morning gloom of November was beginning to dissipate, a weak sun attempting to break through a misted sky.

The street outside was deserted. So was the park. Most people had already left for work and a few chattering children were heading along the main road to school, heads bent against the early-morning chill, book-laden satchels bouncing on their hips. Another half an hour and the sound of children's voices,
laughter, shouting and screaming, would come from the school playground.

Seb looked in the direction of the school for some time before turning away. He set his attention towards the cobbled lane, then the hard-packed mud track down to the allotment.

The ground had thawed a little from the last frost and he smelled rain in the air. Ideally he should wait to clear his patch. The roots would be difficult to pull up with the ground this hard, but the work would do him good. It had been too long since he'd done anything very physical. His tools would need cleaning of course, the fork and the spade a little rusty without the application of oil.

The sound of a train heralded a cloud of steam rolling in like sea foam over the railings and on to the allotments, shrouding the finer details from view. He watched the heavy iron giant sweeping along: powerful and noisy also a little dirty. Before retiring, Seb had worked on the railways. It had been Grace's suggestion to acquire one of the allotments next to the railway line. Memories swirled around his head as he breathed in the pungent smell of burning coal and boiling water.

The steam hovered in the morning air, a veil between him and his old shed. Not that he needed to see the shed to know what condition it was in. No doubt the dilapidated construction would need a bit of a clean after almost two years of neglect. It had never been built to last.

Then he saw the shed door open and a small figure appear.

He heard her – for it definitely was a little girl – speak to somebody in the shed. Soft words. Comforting words.

Someone was in his shed! His first inclination was to demand what this person was doing invading his personal property. Instead he stood absolutely still, waiting to see what she did next. If she came his way he would challenge her. But the little figure ran off in the opposite direction, disappearing in what remained of the steam.

Feeling confused at his own inaction, Seb headed for the shed, the dried-out stalks of what remained of Grace's flowers snatching at his overcoat as he passed close by.

He'd heard the girl speaking to somebody inside the dilapidated structure. He presumed it was another child, perhaps a truant taking a day off school or even a runaway hiding out until the coast was clear. He had to discover who it was before making a decision what to do with them.

Cupping his hand over his eyes, he looked through the window. The panes were surprisingly clean and although the inside was dingy there was just enough light to see his workbench and the shelf on the far wall. There was, however, no sign of another person.

He glimpsed his implements hanging from hooks and the trowels, tins of linseed oil and other bits and pieces on the shelves looking dusty and forgotten.

So who was it she'd been talking to?

Perhaps he'd misheard. Kids talked to imaginary friends, didn't they?

After casting a critical and somewhat guilty look over his allotment he lifted the metal hook from its fastening and entered.

For a moment he stood there in the middle of the shed, frowning at his surroundings. It all seemed as he had left it. Nothing moved. Just as it had appeared from the outside, the inside was most definitely empty.

Not able to believe it truly was, his eyes swept over his surroundings for the second time. He had the distinct impression he was being watched. There was also a sound that he couldn't quite identify.

At first he thought a small steam train was close by – a very small one.
No
, he thought to himself.
That's too soft a sound for a steam train. It's more like
. . . He thought hard.
Panting!
It sounded like somebody panting, not a steam train at all.

The sound was coming from somewhere down near his feet. He looked down and found himself gazing into the most endearing little face he'd seen in a long time.

Two glowing eyes looked up at him. A long pink tongue hung from the puppy's mouth. The creature was sat on its haunches, gazing up at him with those velvet brown eyes and panting, perhaps in fear.

Seb had never been a hard man, but neither was he a soft one. Yet seeing the vulnerable little animal his heart skipped a beat and something heavy, as stout as an old oak door, seemed to creak open. The reason for it opening was as light as a feather, an ecstatic feeling, like a bright light shining into a dark corner.

He bent down to take a closer look.

‘You're not afraid, are you?' he said, keeping his voice low so as not to frighten the little chap.

He held out his index finger. The puppy's tongue was wet and warm and at its touch Seb felt that oak door creak on its hinges and finally crash to the floor.

The puppy came out of his bed, stepping over the board that penned him in, wagging the whole length of his body from wet nose to stubby tail.

It had been a long time since Seb had felt so wanted and his heart melted.

‘And who might you be?' he asked, softly going down on one knee.

The puppy, obviously glad of company, wagged even more vigorously than before. Seb knew enough about dogs to guess that this was an English cocker spaniel and he didn't need to see the docked tail to work that out. Poor little chap. He must have had that done at a very young age. He'd heard two weeks was the norm, usually before their eyes were open.

The puppy's coat was fluffy and golden. When he grew up it would be glossy and as bright as a newly minted copper penny. His ears were low set and draped around his face like a young girl's hair. His eyes were deep brown and soulful.

He spotted the old pottery dish and the name written in crayon around its side in a childish hand. Harry.

He smiled, his eyes remaining fixed on the little dog.

‘So you're Harry, are you? I wonder if you're hungry. Are you hungry?' Seb undid the buckles on his rucksack. ‘Let's see what we can find for you, eh?'

Harry gobbled back a piece of the sandwich Seb had made before leaving home. Bread and cheese, and the puppy didn't seem to mind the pickle even though afterwards he did lap up all the water in his dish.

Seb's lips twitched from one side to the other as though smiling too broadly might crack his face.

‘That mustard pickle a bit too hot, then, Harry?'

The little dog sneezed in response, his ears flapping as he did so.

Seb took all his sandwiches apart, scraping aside the pickle until he was left with just cheese and bread.

Harry ate everything, despite sneezing every so many bites. Once everything was devoured, the little dog looked up at him expectantly licking his lips. Seb guessed he wanted more water. His dish was already empty.

He saw the watering can and guessed there was water in it beneath a layer of ice. He immediately thought of the flask he'd brought with him.

‘How about a drop of milky, sweet tea? How would that suit you, young Harry?'

Understanding Seb's tone and deciding it held no threat, Harry licked his lips in anticipation, watching as this new human in his life unscrewed the top of a Thermos flask.

‘Just a minute. Give me chance to pour it in,' said Seb, one hand holding Harry back while he poured the tea into his dish with the other hand.

Harry made great big lapping noises as he drank until there was nothing left except a droplet hanging on the end of his nose; that too was swiftly dislodged and swallowed.