Orphans of the Storm (25 page)
‘Yes, I remember her first letters, how bleak and strange the place seemed to her and yet how determined she was to make a go of it,’ his grandfather said reminiscently. ‘We’ve kept all her letters, you know, and I like to think she shared most of her experiences with us. At first, as you say, life was incredibly tough, and when your father was away mustering the cattle I know she was dreadfully lonely and often very frightened. But that did not mean she ever considered for one moment giving up. Of course, she loved your father very deeply, but it wasn’t just that. Very soon she began to love the life and to be proud of their achievements. And now she has everything the way she always wanted it, though I’m sure she misses her sons.’
‘Of course, but not as much as Pa does, I bet,’ Pete said, with an inward grin. The price of beef had risen because of the war, so he knew his father was trying to produce even more cattle for the overseas market. Jacko at sixteen was some help but the Walleroo was not his greatest interest as it had been Pete’s. Andy would be hard pressed, but as Pete and his brothers had grown up and moved away, so the sons of the stockmen had also grown up. Only they had not gone away, but stayed to help his father with every aspect of station life, as their young wives were no doubt helping his mother in her prolific garden and her productive kitchen, making jam, bottling fruit and, now, using her new canning machine to can vegetables.
‘Do you have any plans for today?’ his grandfather asked. He bent over a well-grown currant bush, for they were in the netted-off enclosure where he grew soft fruits, then straightened. ‘It’ll be a while before my blackcurrants begin to turn, but when they do I’ll send you a box of them, by rail. They travel better than strawberries and raspberries . . . now, what was I saying?’
‘You were asking if Sammy and I had any plans for today,’ Pete said. ‘We’d like to see a bit more of the country . . . I did wonder about visiting Aunt Helen, but Gran said the bus only goes three times a week and it’s a fair distance to walk.’
‘Ah, that reminds me of what I was going to suggest,’ the old man said. ‘Your grandmother and I used to do a great deal of cycling, and even now we use our machines once or twice a week. They are in good order, though rather heavy and old-fashioned. If you would like to borrow them to ride over to your aunt’s place, then you could save me a journey. Farmer Muswell killed a pig last week and whenever someone in the area has a pig, we share the meat around. I have a big parcel for Helen and Samuel, so if you could deliver it . . .’
Pete said he would be glad to do so and, presently, he and Sammy set off on their ten-mile journey through the deep Devonshire lanes. Birds sang overhead, and the trees which grew on top of the banks cast a dappled shade over the two riders, whilst on every side they saw wild flowers and tiny ferns.
They arrived at their destination, a delightful thatched cottage with whitewashed walls and a heavy oak door. Their knock was answered by a tall, thin man with a long, serious face, who peered at them over a pair of tiny half-moon glasses. Pete began to introduce himself, but his uncle-in-law stopped him with a wave of his hand. ‘I know who you are; you’re my nephew Peter, and this will be your pal. Another Samuel, I believe, though I understand he’s always called Sammy.’ He smiled delightedly at them both. ‘Don’t ask me how I know because it’s incredibly complicated, but news travels fast in small communities. I dare say I heard of your arrival within half an hour of your getting off the train. You see, the inspector who clipped your tickets is brother-in-law to Miss Briggs, who runs our local post office; need I say more?’
As he spoke, he had been ushering them into the cottage, where they were joined by a tall, fair woman whose likeness to his mother was so pronounced that if left Pete in no doubt that this was his Aunt Helen. Much exclaiming and talk followed. Pete handed over the parcel of meat and his aunt bade the visitors sit down at the kitchen table whilst she set the kettle on the Aga and began to butter newly baked scones.
‘How kind of you to come and see us when I know you will have to be back on your airfield in a couple of days,’ Uncle Samuel said presently, when they had drunk two cups of strong tea and eaten the scones. ‘I must show you round our little cottage, which was almost derelict when we moved in ten years ago. Before then, we had lived in a great draughty vicarage on the outskirts of the village, which needed so much money spending on it that the Parochial Church Council decided it would be cheaper to rehouse us and to pull the old place down. They wanted to build a neat, modern villa in the grounds of the old vicarage, but Helen had seen this cottage for sale and fallen in love with it, so we persuaded the powers-that-be to buy it – it was very cheap – and said that we would make the place habitable if they would pay for the materials needed. They agreed, and Paul and Matthew and myself set to work whilst Nan and your Aunt Helen slaved in the garden. Why, they even built a respectable pigsty in the orchard, as well as a grand hen house.’ He had been leading the visitors up the steep little stairs as he spoke and now flung open the first door on the small, square landing. ‘Our bedroom, mine and Helen’s; I always tell myself that we have a sea view, and I’m certain, sometimes, that there is a line on the horizon, far, far away, which really must be the ocean.’ He passed to the next door. ‘Nan’s room.’ Alongside that was the boys’ bedroom, but it was the last room that brought the broadest smile to his face. ‘It’s a proper bathroom, with a WC and a hot water geyser over the bath,’ he said proudly. ‘It took the boys and myself over a year to complete but now, of course, Helen and I have our bath once a week – four inches of water only – and can wash in hot water at the turn of a tap. And now we’d best go back downstairs as I’m sure Helen is longing to show you the garden.’
After they had examined the garden, the hen house and the pigsty, they were given a delicious lunch, then sped on their way home with a bag containing Aunt Helen’s all butter shortbread. ‘We keep a house cow on the meadow which abuts our orchard,’ Helen told the two young men. ‘When the children were young, we had an old pony on which they learned to ride, and when we moved here we brought old Trooper with us. He was a grand little gelding and we missed him sadly when he died five years ago, but then we got Blossom. She’s a pure bred Hereford, and she’s not only a charming creature, she provides us with the means to make our own butter and cheese, and gallons of milk as well.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘I
wish
you could have met Paul and Matthew – and Nan of course – but perhaps next time . . .’
wish
you could have met Paul and Matthew – and Nan of course – but perhaps next time . . .’
Pete and Sammy took their leave as the sun began to sink and discussed the delightful cottage most of the way home. Samuel had told them that it had, in fact, been two dwellings, farm workers’ cottages he presumed, but to the two young Australians it had seemed just about perfect. For both of them, it was their first visit to an English house, other than the vicarage, which was scarcely typical; their first chance to become familiar with the sort of place that Pete’s relatives occupied, and they were mightily impressed. Pete had expected to feel cramped, to miss the wide open spaces of his home country, but, so far at least, he had not done so. Indeed, why should he? Neither his uncle and aunt’s house nor that of his grandparents was surrounded by other dwellings; both had beautiful countryside all about them and an air of permanence which Pete found strangely attractive. Both the tiny church of which Samuel was rector and the larger one in which Pete’s grandfather preached were very old indeed. Yet their antiquity was completely taken for granted, not even remarked upon.
‘I never expected a cottage to be so roomy and comfortable,’ Pete said as they cycled along. ‘And the old folks’ vicarage is a grand house as well. My ma and pa have worked wonders at the Walleroo homestead, but it’s not anything like the house in which my ma was brought up. She must have missed it dreadfully – the vicarage, I mean. I can’t understand what made her go off in the first place.’
Sammy grinned. ‘Birds fly the nest,’ he pointed out. ‘I bet your Aunt Helen’s kids won’t go back to live there after the war. Well, do you mean to go back to the Walleroo?’
Pete said that of course he would go home. It was a hard life but a grand one, he told himself, and it was the one he had been born into. He remembered with pleasure his mother’s wonderful vegetable garden, the picture shows at the neighbouring homestead, the big fan which his mother had installed on the veranda. Of course there were drawbacks: the fearful heat and humidity, the relentless downpours in the wet, and the long burning days of drought that followed it. Then there were the insects. When the water began to recede from the flood plain by the river, dangerous mosquitoes swarmed around the homestead. In the wet, snakes, scorpions and enormous spiders shared one’s house.
He looked round at the cool green shade of the lane along which they were cycling. It was beautiful all right, but it . . . oh, it enclosed him, almost smothered him. He thought of the freedom, the sheer emptiness of Queensland and knew it was the place he most wanted to be. He grinned at his friend. ‘What about you, Sam?’
‘I shan’t live at home again,’ Sammy said immediately. ‘Though I dare say there are jobs in Melbourne which would suit me. My dad works in a grocery store and my ma has her own little hairdressing place, so it ain’t as if I’ve a family business to go back to. When I first left school, I worked in a factory making wireless parts, which is why when I joined the RAF I put in to train as a wireless operator. I couldn’t go back into a factory, it ’ud drive me mad, but I reckon I’ll go back to Australia. It’s a grand country, you know.’
‘Yeah, I’m with you there, cobber,’ Pete said at once. ‘But, you know, I like flying. Oh, I don’t mean I like bombing Germany, or dodging the flak, or risking all our lives every time I take Katie Kite off the ground; I like the actual flying. When the war’s over, I reckon I’ll stay in the air force for a bit before going home. I was talking to Johnny the other day and he was saying that after the war he thinks commercial flying will really take off.’ Sammy spluttered and Pete, grinning, said: ‘Yes, I know, but that was what our revered squadron leader said. He thinks that folk will want to see the world when it’s not at war and flying is a lot quicker and more convenient than going by sea. If he’s right, then there may be jobs with commercial airlines for those who want them.’
By this time, the two young men were cycling up the lane which led to the vicarage, and as they dismounted and pushed their bikes round the corner of the house Pete said regretfully: ‘Only another couple of days and then it’ll be back to the station once more. Oh well, all good things come to an end, but this little break has meant a lot to me. I guess I feel more a part of things. Before, I was fighting Hitler because he’s evil, but now . . . aw, hell, how can I explain it?’
‘You don’t have to,’ Sammy said equably. ‘I know just what you mean. Now, you’re fighting to protect a way of life. You’ve seen how your ma’s family live, their homes, their gardens, the way they’re looking after them kids who aren’t even related to ’em.’ He shot a quick glance at his friend. ‘I know they ain’t my relatives, but, d’you know, I feel the same? Spendin’ time with your folks has given the war a whole new meaning.’
Pete was beginning to reply when they reached the old stable where the bicycles were kept, and as they did so the kitchen door opened and his grandmother emerged. ‘I thought I heard someone talking; come along in, supper’s ready,’ she called. ‘Did you find you aunt and uncle at home? I thought afterwards they might have taken themselves off into Barnstaple to do some shopping, it being such a lovely day.’
Pete assured her that they had found the Warwicks at home and had been royally entertained by them. ‘They gave us a great high tea,’ he admitted, as they were ushered into the big kitchen which smelt deliciously of cooking. ‘I doubt we could eat another morsel. But I expect the kids will clear up anything we can’t manage,’ he concluded, glancing at the evacuees already seated round the huge kitchen table.
‘Oh, I dare say you’ll find you’ve got room for a piece of my pork and apple pie,’ his grandmother said serenely, placing a huge dish in the middle of the table and gesturing to the two young men to sit down. She began to cut the pie into slices whilst Mrs Grundy, who helped out at the vicarage a couple of times a week, served steaming potatoes on to each plate. Gran turned to her husband. ‘Say grace, my dear, and then we can all begin.’
Debbie and Gwen came out of the factory both feeling worn out, for Merseyside had been heavily targeted by the Luftwaffe for nights and nights and they were not only exhausted from lack of sleep – for it was hard to drop off in the dank and crowded shelter – but also stale and dispirited. ‘It seems a lifetime since we went to a flick or a dance hall, or did anything which was fun,’ Debbie grumbled, as they began to walk towards Ogden’s. There was little point in waiting for a bus or a tram because the public services were in terrible disarray; it would be much quicker to walk. ‘But we’re off tomorrow, praise be. I suppose we could have a long lie-in but that doesn’t appeal to me; it’s no use letting the Luftwaffe ruin our daytimes as well as our nights. What are the chances of getting out into the real country, do you suppose? I know we’re going to spend another night in that bleeding shelter and I know we may not get very much sleep,’ she added plaintively, ‘but I’d like to go somewhere tomorrow. I’m just about sick of hanging round at home, week after week. It’s all right when the weather’s lousy, but when it’s fine like it was today it’s such a waste! May is blossom time; we could go to the woods and see the cherry trees in bloom.’ The factory had gone on to seven day working, so the girls could no longer rely on a weekend off but had to follow the shift system, which meant that sometimes their ‘Sunday’ was the middle of the week.
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