Beyond the crushing wave.., p.25
Beyond the Crushing Waves, page 25
“Of course you can. You’re tired and it’s not much — I’ll put the saddles, bridles and curry combs away. You have a shower and I’ll be there soon.”
One by one, the girls drifted off to their cottages as they finished tidying up. Mary stood for a while leaned up against the fence railings to watch the horses lip at the hay and nose the water, tails flicking at flies.
Finally, she sighed and carried one of the saddles into the saddle room. She collected the rest of the items and put them away as well. The last things were the curry combs, which she set on top of a barrel in one corner of the room where the grooming supplies were piled.
“Had a nice ride?” His voice paralysed her.
Slowly she turned to face him, heart thudding against her ribs. “Get away from me,” she hissed.
Crew lolled against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest. A lazy smirk stole across his face. “Oh, come on. You don’t mean that.”
“I do mean it. Don’t you dare touch me.”
“But you didn’t tell anyone…” He straightened, then stepped in her direction, his movements languid but his eyes clear and bright.
Anger blurred her vision. Fury rose up through her chest and thundered through her veins. She rushed at him and kicked hard, her foot landing between his legs with all her ten-year-old might. It threw him off balance for a moment and she ducked past him, out the door into the brilliant afternoon sunshine.
“Hey!” he shouted, rage deepening his voice. “You come back here right now.”
She didn’t wait to listen to the litany of swear words that streamed out of the saddle room behind her. Instead, she ran as fast as her legs would carry her. Arms pumping, she sprinted along the path back to the cottages. One of the cottage mothers was there, carrying a bundle of laundry beneath one arm. Elsa was Harry’s cottage mother and had always seemed like a kind woman, but Mary didn’t have time to stop. She had to get away from Crew.
“Mary? What’s wrong? What’s happened?” called Elsa, concern etched across her face.
Mary didn’t reply. She ran along the path without a word, then stopped and spun about to look back the way she’d come. Her chest heaving, her lungs fighting for air, she checked to see if Crew had come after her. He emerged from the stables, set his hands on his hips, and stared after her, his face hidden in the shadow of his ever-present hat.
“Mary, are you hurt?” asked Elsa again.
Mary faced her, puffing hard.
Elsa’s gaze drifted from Mary’s face up the path to where Crew’s menacing figure stood, legs planted wide. Understanding hardened her features.
“Did he hurt you, Mary?”
Without saying a word, Mary broke into a run again. She streaked past Elsa, down the path, not stopping again until she reached Evelyne Cottage. She barrelled inside and plonked down on her bed, pulling the blanket up over her head even though sweat streamed down her cheeks and back from the heat of the day. She lay there, legs tucked up against her chest, shivering in the unwavering heat and wishing she had someone to protect her from the darkness that lurked in the shadows.
29
February 1954
Harry
An ache in his legs pulled Harry out of a deep slumber. Outside the cottage, birds trilled and cawed in the cool morning air. Although it was early, sunshine slanted across the floorboards. There were no curtains to keep it at bay, and the windows stood open as they always did to let in mosquitos and flies in equal numbers at different times of the day and night.
He hurt in various parts of his body from the rugby tryout the day before. He’d never played before, so he didn’t know the rules. But he could run, and Forrest seemed happy about that.
The ache in his legs was mirrored by the one in his heart. His body hurt, but it was the pain of grief that tore him apart the most. He’d woken from a dream in which he’d lain in his mother’s arms while she told him her favourite story — about a prince and a girl who’d fallen foul of the king over their love and had to hide away in a cave in the forest until the king finally died and the prince, his son, rose to power. It was a sad tale. When she told it and reached the ending where the prince and princess finally wed and lived happily ever after, there’d often be a tear or two on her cheek. He didn’t understand her sorrow then, but felt it now with the last remnants of the dream fading in the reality of the breaking day.
With a great swallow around the lump in his throat, he swung his legs from the bed and pressed his feet to the cold floorboards. There were chores to do, and already his stomach grumbled with need. He’d been so hungry lately. Hungrier than ever before in his life. He’d grown as well, and his waist had shrunk as his legs lengthened.
He hurried about his chores, glad for the distraction from the gnawing in his gut. Finally, the breakfast bell chimed across the village, and he hurried for Nuffield Hall.
The morning routine was embedded in his brain. He didn’t have to think about it at all anymore. It was no longer strange—he’d adapted, the way he had at Barnardo’s. He looked around the dining hall and spotted Mary seated at her table, deep in conversation with one of the older girls. She caught his eye and sent him a smile over the sea of children that filled the gap between them. His heart warmed at the sight of her. Even after months at a distance, he couldn’t shake the feeling of connection he had with her. It drew him to her every day. He thought about her often and wished they were back on the Strathaird together playing hide and seek or reading in the library.
When the prayers were said and the splodge ladled into every bowl, the children stared at it in dismay. A few poked at it with spoons, others wrinkled noses, but most pushed their bowls to the centre of the table. Harry stirred the soupy cereal with his spoon, noting that there were as many weevils in this batch as there were flakes of oats. He swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat and pushed the bowl away.
His stomach grumbled, but there was no amount of emptiness that would induce him to eat a porridge so black with weevils that it appeared grey from a distance. Several of the boys from his table carried their bowls to the pig bins that sat against one wall of the dining hall. They’d carry the bins to the pigpens after breakfast. At least someone would get a benefit from the forsaken meal. They scraped the porridge into the bins using spoons, laughing and whispering amongst themselves as they did. Harry followed them. He had no intention of eating, even if his stomach had flattened against his spine. He stood in line for the bins, waiting his turn.
“Stop that right this moment!” bellowed Forrest from his seat at the long staff table.
He stood to his feet and marched down the steps from the stage to where the boys all stood around the pig bins.
“What’s going on here?”
“It’s full of weevils,” complained one of the bigger boys, his cheeks red.
Forrest’s nostrils flared and he peered into the bins one by one. “This food costs good money. Do you think we have money growing on trees around here? Because let me inform you — we do not. A little extra protein will do you all some good. You will spoon that porridge back into your bowls and you’ll eat it, or so help me…” He didn’t finish his sentence, but every child in the dining hall, who all sat at attention in silence, understood the implied threat.
Whatever the punishment was, Harry wanted to avoid it. He’d seen enough of Forrest’s idea of discipline to know that he didn’t want to be on the receiving end. Thankful he hadn’t scraped his own splodge into one of the bins yet. He returned to the table with his bowl to eat his breakfast.
It was hard going, eating the now-cold mush. It was watery and tasteless. He swallowed it down as quickly as he could manage, doing his best not to look at it before plunging the spoon into his mouth.
Forrest stood over the other boys, watching as they foraged around in the bins for their share of the discarded cereal. As soon as their bowls were full again, he made them eat the watery mess. The porridge was now mixed in with carrot peelings, eggshells, apple cores and anything else the children had thrown into the bins for the pigs. The boys did their best to pick the pieces out, but Forrest was impatient and began rapping them over the knuckles until they used their spoons to shovel the mixture into their open mouths.
One of the boys, a small lad with ginger hair and a button nose, heaved and threw his splodge back up directly into his bowl. Harry looked away, pushing down a heave of his own at the sight. He stared at the wall, breathing deep and fighting his stomach’s desire to rid itself of the cold, watery porridge.
“I’m sorry, sir,” whispered the ginger-haired boy, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His face grew pale when he saw the look of fury on Forrest’s face.
“I said eat it!”
The boy’s brow furrowed. “But I…”
“Eat it, or you will regret your decision for a very long time, son.”
The dining hall was silent. Someone dropped a spoon on the floor and the echo reverberated around the cavernous space. The ginger-haired boy began to cry. Giant tears trickled down his freckled cheeks. His eyes reddened as he stared miserably at the bowl in his hands.
Forrest remained unmoved, so the boy began to eat. Around him, children looked away — staring at their hands, their feet, or the ceiling overhead. The rest of the staff continued eating their hot breakfast without showing the slightest concern over what took place in front of them.
Mrs Forrest stood to her feet and cleared her throat. “Children, if you’ve finished your breakfast, you may be excused.”
There was a thunder of feet as dozens of children hurried to take their dirty dishes, cups and spoons to the washing tubs along the side of the room next to the kitchen. Harry joined them, shuffling forwards as fast as he could. He wanted to get out of there. To breathe deep in the morning air and forget about the congealing splodge and weevils in his gut, to push the image of the ginger-haired boy from his mind’s eye.
Outside the hall, a farmer sat atop a wagon loaded with peaches. He wore long brown pants, with an oversized belt cinched tight around his waist. His buttoned shirt was stained and worn with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He wore a dirty scarf tied around his neck and a wide-brimmed hat atop his head. Around him, children buzzed and laughed, grabbing at peaches and shoving them into their pockets, down their shirts and piling them into their arms.
The farmer laughed good-naturedly as he climbed down from the wagon. “I thought you might like some of my fallen fruit. I can’t sell them anyway, and it would be wasteful to let them rot on the ground. Looks like I was right about that. Hold your horses. I’m gonna take these into the kitchen—you can eat your fill then.”
But the children didn’t listen. Harry rushed at the wagon, eager to fit as much of the fruit into his own clothing as he could. He pushed a juicy peach into his mouth, then filled his pockets. As he was piling peaches into the front of his shirt down through his collar, he noticed Mary alongside him. Her shirt was tucked into the waistband of her shorts and was full to the brim with peaches too.
He laughed at her around the peach in his mouth. Her eyes sparkled back at him. Beside her, Lottie filled her own pockets. Max hobbled up behind him and reached for a peach, his eyes gleaming.
“I’ve never seen so many peaches in all my life,” said Mary, laughing.
“Get away from that, you rascals!” shouted Forrest, coming out of the dining hall behind them.
The children scattered with clothing stuffed full of peaches.
“Put that fruit back. We’ll share it out equally amongst the group!” Forrest did his best to grab for a child on his left, then one to his right, but they ducked out of reach and scampered away into the village.
Harry ran as fast as he could manage without dropping fruit in the direction of the garden shed. Mary, Lottie and Max ran beside him. Max’s back had improved enough for him to get around now. Harry was grateful that when the swelling subsided, the doctors discovered that Max’s back was healing well, and he would eventually regain the full use of his legs. For now, he shuffled or hobbled around with an awkward, leaning gait, although it didn’t slow him down too much. He straggled behind them. Harry spun to beckon him on every few seconds, and to make sure his friend could manage.
“Let’s go inside. No one will see us in there,” said Mary, puffing as she ducked into the shed.
Harry waited for Max, then helped him shuffle through the doorway.
They settled inside the garden shed against a wall, letting the fruit tumble out onto the ground around them from pockets, shirts, and arms.
“How wonderfully delicious,” said Mary, letting her eyes drift shut.
Harry agreed, but didn’t stop chewing to say so. Juice dribbled down his chin as the tart-sweet flavour burst over his tongue. He spat out the pit, then began on another peach.
“One day, I’m going to grow my own peaches. I’ll have a tree in my backyard, and I’ll eat them whenever I like,” said Lottie, her face covered in the pinkish juice.
“Me too,” replied Harry as he reached into his shirt for another. “And I’ll never eat porridge again.”
Laughing, the friends ate as many of the peaches as their stomachs would hold, and the feeling of emptiness inside Harry faded a little more with each discarded pit.
30
March 1956
Mary
The thin piece of paper fluttered with the rush of the wind across the cottage verandah. Mary held it in place with the heel of one hand against the seat of the chair, her tongue poked out the side of her mouth.
“Ask her when she’s coming,” suggested Lottie, hovering close by.
“I will,” replied Mary.
The letter to Mam was slow going. Mary had learned how to form the letters of the alphabet, but spelling wasn’t her strong suit. She was doing her best to phonetically sound out the words she wanted to use, but had a feeling it wouldn’t be easy for Mam to decipher. Besides that, Lottie continued to harangue her with suggestions for entire paragraphs about their new living arrangements, and questions that Mam wasn’t likely to answer.
Mary had never seen Mam put pen to paper in her entire life. She hardly thought Mam would begin now. Besides that, she didn’t know Mam’s new address. The last time they spoke to her, she had plans to leave their council flat and move in with Stan. But she didn’t give Mary his address. So, she’d send the letter to the old address and hope it found its way to Mam’s new residence. Although by now, she and Stan could’ve split up and she might’ve moved on to somewhere else entirely.
She leaned forward and pressed the pencil hard against the paper as she formed another word. It would take her until suppertime if she kept going at this rate. Frustrated, she set down the pencil and slumped against the wall, her back aching.
“I’m never going to finish,” she complained. She hadn’t wanted to write a letter at all, but had given in when Lottie looked at her with those big blue puppy-dog eyes, begging to do it. All of the other girls in the cottage who had a living relative back in England were writing, why shouldn’t they write too? Lottie was adamant. Mam was coming to meet them, so they should stay in touch or she wouldn’t know where to send them word when she arrived.
Mary hated to break her sister’s heart. So, she wrote the letter and would give it to Ingrid to send to their previous address, knowing that someday Lottie would have to face the fact that Mam wasn’t coming.
She finished up the letter and strode inside to give it to Ingrid, who sat at the dining table with her feet up on a chair reading a copy of the Women’s Weekly magazine and eating from an open bag of salted chips.
“Here’s the letter from Lottie and me,” said Mary, handing it over.
Ingrid took it, the grease on her fingertips transferring to the paper as she scanned over the words.
“Crap spelling,” she muttered.
“I know,” replied Mary, swallowing.
Ingrid met her gaze, then waved a hand. “Okay then, go away now.”
Mary hurried from the room, biting on a fingernail. Outside, the morning sun warmed the still-dewy grasses. Mary and Lottie walked side by side in the direction of the stables. On the way, Harry and Max caught up with them. Mary’s stomach tingled at the sight of Harry. Ever since the incident with Crew, he’d been particularly attentive to her, going out of his way to check on her every day, even when he was busy with school and farm work.
“Did you write to your mother?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“I wrote to Davey. I don’t know if he’ll get it, though, since I only have the Fairbridge headquarters address.”
“He’ll get it,” she assured him with a sympathetic smile.
“Where are you going?” asked Harry.
“To the stables.”
“We’ll come too,” he replied.
He didn’t want her to go there alone. He’d said as much several times. The fact was, Harry couldn’t always be with her, and she hated to let Crew cause her to live in fear, but she rarely went anywhere alone anymore.
“Fine with me,” she said.
“When you’re finished with the horses, let’s go mushrooming,” said Max.
“Oh, yes, let’s.” Lottie’s eyes gleamed, and she rubbed her hands together.
Mary loved mushrooms as much as Lottie. Every now and then, they’d managed to scavenge for some around the bomb site near their home in London. They’d beg the neighbours, one by one, until they found someone who could spare a dab of butter, then they’d fry the mushrooms with butter and onions, if they had them, and eat them on toast. Mary’s mouth watered at the thought. It’d rained the day before, and the ground was wet. Perfect weather for mushrooms, although they were best if found in the early morning before the day grew too hot.
They hurried through their chores at the stable. Mary and Lottie removed Slim and Glitter’s rugs and brushed them until their coats shone. Then they spread hay over the ground, along with the other Pony Club girls, for the horses to munch on, and filled the water trough.
