Spilt Milk Page 16

  Track-side advertisement hoardings lined the route out of London. Gibbs Dentifrice, Bournville Cocoa, Bovril, and Greys cigarettes. The names huge and beckoning in bright colours. There were suburban back gardens, rows of identical brick houses and then fields and farms and woodland and silvery stretches of water and villages.

  Birdie pressed her face against the window. She could not remember having been out of London before, and she wished she could get off the train and go straight back home. She’d not even had time to speak to Joan before she left. Heat hazed over cornfields and meadows. Men working in the fields stopped to stare at the train passing. The jolt of the rails rocked her back and forth, back and forth. She felt nauseous and unhappy. She had not wanted to be packed off to an aunt. She wanted only to undo this whole mess. To go back to her own life, before all this. She was ashamed and guilty. Sent away from home, she might as well be dead.

  When the train pulled in and she got down onto the platform, Birdie decided not to take the bus as her aunt had suggested. She would walk. She crossed a bridge and stopped to watch ducks swimming in the narrow river below. At home they would be getting the pub ready for opening time. Nellie would be cleaning glasses with a cloth in the silent, careful way she went about all her tasks. Birdie wished she was back there, wiping down the tables, chatting to Uncle George.

  She walked up a hill towards a church, a tall building made of stone and flint with a spire that rose above the rooftops. It was a hot day, but there was a breeze and nothing of the stiff heat of London. The trees that lined the road were fresh and green. Church bells rang out. There were cars and motor buses, plenty of horse-drawn carts. As she walked, she calculated the months she would be staying. She’d be able to go back to London sometime in the spring. It was this thought that carried her on, towards the guest house and whatever it was that the future held there for her.

  The Unicorn Guest House was down a narrow street away from the town centre. It was in the old part of the town, where the buildings were tall and striped with black painted timbers and white plaster pargeting. Some were three storeys high, and crooked-looking. All the houses seemed to lean out into the street, bent and rickety, like puff-chested old men. The front door stood slightly ajar. A glossy black door with a polished brass knocker. A sign next to it stated the guest house had comfortable rooms at moderate terms with modern electric light and garage parking. Under it, a large black cat sat sunning itself. Birdie bent down and stroked it, and it purred and rolled its body around her legs. It trotted up the steps, pushed the front door open and went inside. Birdie followed it into a hallway. The red patterned carpet under her feet was faded. Why did the place feel so familiar? She had surely never been here before.

  There was a small reception desk in the alcove under the stairs. A green-fronded fern in a glazed green pot sat on the desk, along with a small brass bell. A carved wooden cuckoo clock on the wall loudly tick-tocked.

  A young woman sat dozing in a chair. She had a black dress on with a white cotton apron over it, and her grey stockings were wrinkled around her ankles. Her blonde hair was parted on the side and scraped back into a bun. Birdie cleared her throat to attract her attention.

  ‘Hello? I’m Mrs Stewart’s niece.’

  The woman yawned and rubbed her face, getting to her feet.

  ‘So you’re Birdie? Matilda Dunn. Nice to meet you. I’m cook and waitress here. My grandmother did the job before me. My dad, Stan, used to be the handyman here before he upped and left us. You could say we Dunns come with the property. Come on, I’ll take you through.’

  Birdie followed her along a corridor and down a small set of stairs. She opened the door on to a room cluttered with figurines. Shepherdesses and blue-coated boys and white china swans filled the mantelpiece. A large gramophone cabinet stood against a wall with its doors open, revealing a stack of shiny black records. And there was Aunt Vivian. She was slim and wore a grey linen dress, pleated at the front and belted in at the waist.

  ‘Come in and sit down, dear,’ said her aunt. ‘Matilda, why don’t you make tea and bring it in here.’

  Vivian studied the girl as she sat drinking tea. She needed feeding up a bit. She was thin-cheeked, her pale grey eyes luminous and sad. She had a full mouth, carefully painted red. Far too much make-up. She looked a bit like a shop girl. Her complexion was dull. The inside of her dress collar was grubby.

  City life, Vivian supposed. Never mind, there would be plenty of time to show her how to get her clothes properly clean and help her freshen her complexion and wear less make-up. She was a pretty girl with the Marsh family eyes.

  ‘I hope you’ll enjoy staying with me,’ she said, and thought how inadequate that sounded.

  Birdie’s room was simple but homely-looking. The single brass bed was made up with clean white sheets. Beige wool blankets with pink satin bindings had been turned down ready for her. A churchy kind of tinted sunlight poured in through the coloured glass in the fanlights of the window. There was a wooden chair with a rush matting seat. A small chest of drawers and a print on the wall. A picture of a snowy mountain range, a vivid blue sky above its craggy summits. Sheep grazing in its valleys.

  Birdie sat on the bed and swung her legs, the motion of the train still running through her. She lit a cigarette and kicked off her shoes. A fly buzzed in the room. Outside, the sound of birdsong came and went. This place was only hours from London, but it felt as distant as the moon.

  Fifteen

  George said he wanted to do it properly. He got down on one knee in the backyard, but something in his knee bone went off like a bullet crack. He winced loudly.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Nellie began to say.

  ‘Yes I do,’ he grumbled. ‘Wait up a minute. I love you, Nellie Farr,’ he said, opening the box and showing her the wedding band inside it. ‘I would like to ask you to do me the honour of being my legal wife.’

  She heard that word legal. She knew what he meant. She’d been his secret wife for years now.

  ‘Legal? Ah now.’

  ‘It’s simple, Nellie. Just say yes. Henry’s been gone a couple of years. He would want us to be happy.’

  When he stood up, his trousers had green moss stains on them. His knees made more cracking sounds.

  ‘Let’s do it quietly,’ said Nellie. ‘Just you and me. No need to tell anybody.’

  ‘We’ll do it anyhow you want. Quietly suits me too. No need to shout about it, is there?’

  ‘A Wednesday would be best.’

  ‘A Wednesday?’

  ‘Don’t you know the rhyme?

  Monday for wealth

  Tuesday for health

  Wednesday the best day of all

  Thursday for losses

  Friday for crosses

  And Saturday no luck at all.’

  George rubbed his chin. ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Well, midweek it is then.’

  So Nellie became Mrs Farr for the second time in her life. There was a little joke in front of the registrar between her and George about her already knowing how to sign her name, and that was it. She went from being Mrs Henry Farr to being Mrs George Farr.

  Two marriages, Nellie said to herself that night when she and George sat at the kitchen table. She had never imagined being married twice. It seemed to her she had been lucky in love. That Joe Ferier, who had broken her heart when she had been young and tender-minded, had set her life on a path that led her to this room, to this lovely man, the father of her daughter.

  ‘Here’s to Birdie,’ said George. ‘I hope she won’t be too upset she missed the wedding. I suppose your sister might be a bit put out we didn’t say anything. I know Lydia will be spitting feathers when she finds out. She can’t stand being left out of things. Maybe we should have a honeymoon? Go down and stay with your sister and see Birdie?’

  Nellie said she’d rather stay at home. She knew George must not see Birdie until she had the baby adopted and cou
ld start life again.

  ‘To our daughter,’ said George, and it shocked Nellie to hear him say it openly.

  ‘To your sister, Vivian, and to my brother, Henry, who brought you to London and changed my life for good,’ he continued, lifting his beer glass. ‘God bless the lot of them. And us too. To you and me, girl.’

  ‘Oh, George, you are daft,’ said Nellie, blushing. But it was true that Henry had changed her life. There had been grace in the relationship between the three of them. Nellie had followed her heart, but she had also learned that the only way they could live as they had done was by keeping secrets. George and Henry had understood that. They had gone through the years happily by agreeing not to discuss what went on between them. Keeping certain things private was what life was largely about, it seemed to her. Being seen to play by the rules was what mattered. That was why Birdie had to go away. After the adoption she could have a chance of finding a man she loved, and nobody would ever know.

  As long as George didn’t know, he would think of Birdie as he always had, as a good girl, a girl to be proud of. There was some consolation to be found in keeping secrets if you thought about it like that.

  When George went to bed, Nellie went outside, just like she had done twenty years earlier, back when she was still amazed by the city. She stood out in the yard and looked up at the night sky like she was searching for her own reflection. But no. She was nowhere to be found up there. She was here on earth, heavy as the soil, solid as rock and stone.

  Aunt Vivian turned the volume up on the wireless. Chamberlain’s voice sounded tired and low.

  ‘This country is at war with Germany.’

  Birdie didn’t care. She had too many of her own worries. Her mother and Uncle George had got married. They had sent a letter, not to her but to her aunt, who had given it to her. It was in her pocket and she had read it many times now.

  Dear Vivian

  George has sold the lease on the pub, and although I know I am very late in telling you this, we got married last week. I hope you will understand that George and I have always been friends. In order to live under the same roof, as we have always done in a most respectable way, we decided we should get married. Can you explain this to Birdie for me? I hope you and Birdie will forgive me for having not mentioned this earlier. George and I so wanted you to be at the ceremony, but how could you both come? It is so important that Birdie stay hidden away until this is all over. Tell her I am sending her a parcel soon with a wedding photo and some chocolate to feed her sweet tooth.

  The lease on the pub has ended and George wants to live by the sea where he and Henry grew up as boys. Please understand I am sad to be moving further away from you, Vivian, but George has worked so hard in his life, I feel he deserves to ‘finally return home’, as he puts it. We have found a bungalow in Hastings and will be moving there in January. My sister-in-law, Lydia, lives in the same town. She is the one who found the bungalow and showed the details to George. It is nice and modern as it was built only ten years ago and is five minutes’ walk from the sea. The house is called ‘Mon Repos’, which is French, so George says. There is a line of shops nearby. The promenade was all rebuilt ten years ago, and there is a new outdoor bathing pool complete with diving boards (though George says I am too old to be thinking of diving boards).

  There was a terrible storm over London last night and a lot of people thought it was an air raid. In the pub they were all talking about it. There are kids from round here being evacuated to the country. Tiny tots sent off to God knows where. I’ve told some of their mothers that, for heaven’s sake, get them some proper wool socks to take with them. They’ll freeze without them. Please tell Birdie I hope her health is improving and that we miss her very much. Thank you again, Vivie, for taking care of our girl.

  George sends his regards.

  Your loving sister, Nellie

  Now her home was gone and her mother and uncle had got married. How could they do this without telling her? She was being punished again and again. And how could her mother live near Aunt Lydia? She hated her. And then another thought struck her. What if her mother told Aunt Lydia? Birdie could never look that awful woman in the face if that was the case.

  There was a knock at the front door.

  ‘That’s probably Hitler,’ said Matilda weakly, beginning to laugh and cry at the same time. ‘Come to see about a room.’

  She came back into the room with a man in corduroy trousers and a collarless shirt. He held a rough tweed cap in his hands.

  ‘Charles, how nice to see you,’ said Vivian, and Birdie noticed how she patted her hair and became girlish in his presence. Her aunt was nothing like Birdie’s mother, who treated everybody in the same slightly stiff, frank way, whether they were women, children, stray dogs or handsome men. Her aunt was flirty around men. Even the bad-tempered old coal man was treated to her gay laughter.

  ‘This is my niece, Miss Birdie Farr. Birdie, this is Mr Charles Bell. He farms in the same village your mother and I used to live in. His house is, in fact, built over our old cottage.’

  ‘Hello,’ said the man. ‘I’m just checking you are all right. I wanted to know if you need help with anything …’

  ‘Well, that is very good of you, Charles. So nice to have a gentleman around the place. Come and have a drink with us. I think we all need something for our nerves right now.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the man. He smiled. ‘So you are Miss Farr? The piano player? I’ve seen your photos.’

  ‘Have you?’ Birdie blushed. ‘What photos?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said her aunt, as if she too was embarrassed. ‘I have photographs your mother sent me. Mr Bell here must have seen one or two of them. You have a very good memory, Charles, I must say. So clever of you to remember.’

  ‘I’ve seen lots of photos of you,’ he said in an amiable way. ‘I’ve been coming to your aunt’s tea room for years now. She’s very proud of you.’

  A siren sounded in the street, loud and piercing. Matilda screamed and knocked her glass off the table.

  ‘It’s a siren,’ said Aunt Vivian. ‘For heaven’s sake, Matilda, they said it would happen. Please do calm down.’

  Birdie bent to pick up the broken glass.

  ‘Mind your fingers,’ Mr Bell said. He crouched beside her and took a wet shard of glass from her. ‘I’ve got it. You let me do this.’

  He had hazel-coloured eyes. Intelligent-looking.

  Another siren sounded and Matilda screamed again.

  ‘That’s the all clear, I think,’ said Mr Bell. ‘You’ll be all right now.’

  ‘Why don’t you and Matilda walk in the garden together,’ Aunt Vivian said to Mr Bell, taking the broken glass and ushering them towards the door. ‘Perhaps you might see where you think we should put a shelter?’

  ‘Such a lovely man,’ said Aunt Vivian when they had gone. ‘But very shy. He’s been on his own too long, I think. Farmers can be such solitary creatures. Don’t say a word, but I have high hopes he will marry Matilda. She doesn’t seem to mind his reticence.’

  Birdie watched Mr Bell walking with Matilda in the garden. How odd a feeling it was that he knew her. That he had seen photographs of her over the years. She had come here as a stranger, and Mr Bell had recognized her as someone familiar.

  Her aunt put the wireless back on. An announcement was being given. Do not go out of your homes unless absolutely necessary. Do not go anywhere without your gas mask. Birdie wasn’t going anywhere in any case. She had to stay indoors like a prisoner and hide her condition. Dr Harding had made it clear she was lucky. A home for fallen women would be far harder than her aunt’s gentle hospitality. That was the right word. Fallen. Birdie saw herself stumbling, sprawled on a pavement with bloody knees, and a crowd, led by her cousin Roger, laughing at her.

  The national anthem played on the wireless, slow and laborious. In the garden, Charles Bell and Matilda picked early windfalls under the apple tree. Watching them, Birdie thought it looked as i
f nothing in the world had changed. She wished she could feel the same way.

  In October the weather turned cold. The water in the jug by Birdie’s bed had a thin layer of ice upon it when she woke. And yet she didn’t feel the cold. She seemed to be generating heat all by herself. Mornings were bright with the palest blue skies, and Birdie longed to go out while the day lasted. She was not supposed to leave the house in case she was seen by somebody, but she was fed up. She went downstairs and slipped out into the garden where she walked up and down, breathing the fresh air.

  As she came back in through the kitchen door, she felt a sudden low pain in her belly and a dampness between her legs. A small dark stain bloomed across her skirt. She was afraid. The baby. Oh, God, the baby. She held her belly, cradling her hands across it.

  ‘Aunt Vivian!’ Birdie cried out. ‘Aunt Vivian!’

  Dr Harding put her to bed and raised the end of her bed on bricks so that her feet were higher than her head. She was not to move for a few days and then they’d see how things were. If she had any more scares, the best place would be an unmarried mothers’ home with a hospital ward.

  ‘You are very fortunate,’ Dr Harding said, as he examined her. ‘As long as the child is born without defects, there is a decent and loving couple who will take it.’

  ‘Twins would have to be separated,’ he added.

  Aunt Vivian came upstairs carrying a bulky-looking gramophone and two records in paper sleeves. She set them down on the dressing table and sat on the bed to get her breath back.