Sally Bone
by Sheila Fields
Published by Blenheim Press Ltd at Smashwords
ISBN 978-1-906302-66-5
Copyright Sheila Fields 2009
Sheila Fields has asserted her right
to be identified as the Author of this work.
Illustrations by Susan Davies
The English edition of this book is also available in print
Previously published in Dutch in The Netherlands in 2005
under the title De Bestemming
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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To my darling Aunt Jessie and Uncle Fred, who taught me the rules of life and who paved the way for my success in life. I shall always be deeply grateful to them. I know one day we will meet again.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My gratitude to my school friends still living in Chrishall. Because of the help and kindness shown, I have the feeling I have never left the village.
The Balcony was furnished as at all times. The crowds were screaming with joy. The statesman of the century waved to the crowd. The King, the Queen and the two Princesses were of irrelevant importance; our statesman had saved the nation.
The war in Europe was over, 8 May 1945.
Emotions could flow, embarrassment didn’t exist. The nation was in a garden of unknown joy and freedom.
Among the many thousands of wives and mothers who were mourning the loss of their sons and daughters sat one still, very young damsel, beautifully dressed and groomed, on her bed crying her heart out. For her this was the day she had dreaded.
To her the balcony scene meant a new unwanted journey, a fear of the unknown. A journey back to her true parents: a mother she had seen five times in five years and a father no more than ten. Trains and all forms of transportation had been a disaster and an excuse not to see the children.
WAR
‘Nursie, why can’t you come with me tomorrow? You never leave me alone. There must be someone to tuck me in, see that my porridge is not too warm, brush my hair and read me a story before I go to sleep.’
Little Sally felt sad; she knew something was going to happen to her life, but she hadn’t worked it out in complete detail.
‘Sally, dear, I have told you so many times there is a war on. People go away, people become soldiers, ladies become nurses.’
‘Will you become a soldier, Nursie? Or will you become a soldier’s nurse?’
‘Please, Sally, listen to me. We, your parents and I, have to make sure that little girls like you are safe from all the ugly things that can take place during war.’
‘I understand that,’ said little Sally, ‘but Nursie, I want you to come with me.’
‘We will stop this subject, young lady. You will finish your dinner, you will go to bed, tomorrow morning you will get up on time and the two of us will find ourselves heading towards the station.’
Little Sally couldn’t eat any more. Her love for food disappeared; she couldn’t get used to the idea that she was going out alone into the wide, wide world.
Nursie wouldn’t be there to hold her hand and, oh dear oh dear, who would take care of her little rabbit? Who would feed Bunny?
‘Nursie, have you packed all my clothes for me? Do I have enough socks because my feet must be kept warm. Nursie, have you put all my knickers in my suitcase because I must wear clean knickers every day.’ She was, of course, trying her best to work on the feelings of her faithful nurse and the only true friend she had known in her childhood years. Perhaps she might say, ‘All right, Sally, I won’t be a nurse, I won’t be a soldier, I’ll stay with you for ever and ever.’
Sally realised that none of this was going to happen, and the best thing to do was to go to bed and listen for the very last time to the story of the seven dwarfs, and say her prayers to Mr Jesus, asking him to take care of Bunny and Nursie, and thanking him for her daily bread.
Prayers had always been an evening ritual. It fascinated her to talk to someone that no one knew and if her wishes came true she was always promising him presents and inviting him to tea.
The last evening didn’t end the way Sally wanted it to. Nursie wasn’t herself. She kept dribbling on about the way Sally should behave with the kind people who were going to keep her safe, that the war wouldn’t last long, and before they could say ‘Jack Robinson’ they would all be together again.
Somehow, Sally didn’t believe all these promises. Nursie wasn’t talking the way she usually did, and what’s more, she didn’t look at her while she was talking, which meant it was not really true. Her hot chocolate ended the day and after a very big hug and two kisses from Nursie she pulled the sheets over her head and started to cry.
‘If I can remember the way Nursie looks she will always be with me,’ whispered Sally to herself. ‘I can always talk to Mr Jesus,’ and with these comforting ideas, for the last time in the home of her nurse, her bear Soppy in her arms, Sally passed on into the world of dreamland.
Liverpool Street Station is one of the most crowded and busiest stations in London. Wherever you want to go, departure usually seems to be from Liverpool Street.
Black from the horrible smoke from the old fashioned trains, cheerful luggage porters rushed around hoping for a generous tip. Whistles were blowing a tone of announcement that everyone should get aboard. Two whistles meant the train was about to leave and that folks who were saying goodbye should leave the platform and return to the exit.
The cab would need approximately thirty minutes to reach the station from Sally’s house. Her porridge had been consumed and there was absolute silence between the two people. The suitcase, gasmask and a new school satchel were lying in the front hall, ready to be carried by the driver to the cab.
By this time Sally was all dressed to go. She looked an absolute picture in a little fur coat, knitted hat and gloves to match, warm woollen socks and black patent shoes. Attached to her coat was a somewhat large badge with her name printed on it plus the number of the travel group. Sally Bone, Group 8, number two, age four.
The doorbell went. The cab driver had arrived on the dot. Sally rushed to the door to greet him.
‘All ready, missy, got your luggage for me? Come on, now, we can’t be late, can we?’ Without further thought Sally followed the cab driver to the cab, took her place on the back seat, and watched him close the speaker’s window; and by that time Nursie was sitting next to her.
Neither one said a word. Sally held Nursie’s hand so tight it was as if she never wanted to let go. For the very last time Sally’s nurse put her arms around the child, held her close and whispered, ‘You will always be my little girl, Sally, and whatever happens, I will always love you.’
By this time the cab had arrived at the station. The luggage was unloaded and taken to a jolly porter who patiently awaited his instructions from the little girl’s nurse.
Hundreds of children were standing on the platforms. Some had already said goodbye to their parents and were patiently waiting in their groups. Others were still sobbing and crying as goodbyes were in a question of minutes. The groups represented school classes, and in most cases the boys were with the boys, and the girls were with the girls. The jolly porter was politely asked if he would take both ladies and luggage to Group 8 and deposit Sally’s case in the relevant luggage bin.
By this time Sally Bone was beginning to enjoy things. She had never before seen so many people together, except for when Nursie had taken her to see the King and Queen pass by in their lovely gold coach last summer. However, it didn’t take Sally very long to discover that most of the children did look oh so shabby, and why were so many crying? Cry babies; even she knew that if you must cry, do it indoors and never outside, and certainly not in front of everyone.
She looked up at Nursie and gave her one of her mischievous smiles. It made the darling nurse feel better. She knew Sally so well: one of those smiles meant she was in command of any situation and you would have to be a smart little lad or grandfather not to fall for her natural charms.
Group 8 was right at the end of the platform but to Sally’s delight right opposite the carriages attached to the steam engine. What absolute fun; she had never been so close to an engine before. Perhaps things wouldn’t be so bad after all. Nursie shook hands with the infant teacher in charge of Group 8, asked her to keep a special eye on Sally, and said hello to the other little darlings who were all two or three years older than her Sally. Nursie bent down to give a final kiss to her little girl.
‘Have you still got your hankie, dear? Don’t forget to use it, there’s a good girl. I’ll see you soon . . . God bless.’
Nursie turned around, and walked past the crowds until she had found the exit. She didn’t dare to look back. She hoped that Sally wasn’t waving. Her heart and knowledge of life told her that she would never see her darling Sally again.
She sat in the back of the cab, tears pouring down her cheeks, and she prayed that her little girl would come through the war as beautiful and innocent as she was when it all started. The cab driver looked in his mirror and saw to his horror a kind hearted nurse completely at war with herself, trying to fight her emotions and not being very successful at it. What should he do? What could he do? What would the rules of etiquette allow him to do? After some twenty minutes he pulled the cab over to the side of the road, where he knew there was a small café on the corner, opened the passenger door and in a very timid voice announced his honourable intention.
‘Please, Miss, may I offer you a cup of tea? There’s a war on and we folks have to stick together.’
Sally, who was already getting bored, wished that she had brought her rabbit with her. She waved once or twice to the engine driver who had waved back, but she couldn’t continue to get his attention although it would be great fun to help him drive the train. She racked her brains trying to decide whether or not she could drive the train and decided finally that she would leave that all to the great big men who liked getting their hands dirty and by the look of things didn’t use their hankies.
She wanted everything to start. She was getting hungry and she wanted to go to the toilet. She tried to speak to the girls and boys, but no one would speak to her. Most of them were too shy to speak, still too upset from saying goodbye to their mums and dads, and most of them couldn’t associate Sally with the kids in the street – she spoke real proper; she didn’t forget her t’s and h’s. She took one final look at what she decided were a bunch of absolute shabby little horrors. She must find a way to get rid of them; what was Nursie thinking of, Nursie who was always so particular?
The schoolmistress in charge was wearing heavy shoes like men’s, and an army-like khaki raincoat. Sally thought she looked like a man and to make matters worse she could see three long black hairs coming out of her chin. She was sure she could hear her teeth chattering when she spoke, an instrumental noise that made poor Sally want to sing a song very loudly, in order to avoid the poor lady being laughed at.
Nursie would have said: ‘We must get ourselves organised, child, we can’t go on like this forever.’
In the coming six years these words of genuine wisdom were used frequently by Sally Bone to get herself out of a plight, and frequently into one. As small as she was, little Madame had to be in complete control of her situation. Operation ‘Station day’ had to be reorganised. She couldn’t possibly stay in this creepy crawly group; her rabbit had had more to say than this party.
Her eyes moved slowly to the group on the right. They were all boys, all had school uniforms on and all looked extremely smart. The gentleman in charge was twice the size of her Daddy and he had a lovely moustache. Her imagination went in all directions. Would all these nice young men take her with them in their group? Would there be room for her? She did have a problem: she had no chocs to give them, she couldn’t ask them back for tea because she didn’t know where she was going to. One thing she did know, however: she definitely wanted to go with them and not with the cry babies around her. Nursie had taught her how to walk and sing; perhaps she could sing to them. They might like to hear a Christmas carol about Mr Jesus and how very handsome he was when he was a baby.
She decided, however, that her tactics had to be more ladylike. She must first wave: one slow wave; two quick waves; it didn’t matter, but wave she must. Male specimens always had an unbelievable attraction for Sally, and vice versa, and within one second the whole male group was waving at her. She wasn’t sure if Nursie would have agreed to this, but fun it was and she had already decided with all her childish vanity which hand she would be holding before the train left.
Whistles were blowing; the station was ablaze with dirty black smoke from the engines. Station porters were shouting, ‘All aboard, please, all aboard,’ and in the midst of a tumult which can only be described as children in a war at home, little Sally tiptoed between all the long and short legs from one group into the other.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ shouted down the lovely man twice the size of her Daddy and with the lovely moustache. He knew he couldn’t possibly send her away. By now all the groups were rushing off to their carriages. If he was not careful she would fall under the train; such a small young mite should never have been sent from home in the first place; what was this world coming to?
World or no world, Miss Sally looked up at him with her velvet green eyes and shouted at the top of her voice, ‘Please, Mister, my name is Sally, may I hold your hand, may I come in the train with you? Please, please?’ The poor man had no time to think; the trains were almost moving, the porters already closing the doors. ‘Young lady,’ he replied, ‘we’ll talk about this later.’ He picked her up, threw her under his arm and strode into his reserved carriage where pupils had already taken their place. There was only one place for Sally, either on his lap or on that of a pupil’s, and as it was obvious that Sally was not going to leave go of him, it was his lap and definitely no one else’s.
For three hours this stranger’s lap was a divine paradise of excitement for her. What an absolute joy this war was going to be. Everyone was so friendly! She chatted and asked non-stop questions to the boys, shared their sandwiches and homemade cakes, and used the steam on the carriage windows for drawing dolls and rabbits. No Nursie to tell her what to do, no visits to home at weekends. She felt completely safe in the arms of this perfect stranger.
Her short little arm moved around his neck and she whispered in his ear, ‘Mister, may I call you Uncle? I don’t have any uncles.’
He turned his gaze and looked into the child’s face. He felt an overwhelming desire to save her; to protect her; he mustn’t let her out of his sight. How could he say no to such a request? No one had ever before asked him to be their uncle.
‘Sally, you may call me Uncle.’
‘Uncle what?’ said Sally, ‘you must have a name.’
‘Uncle is sufficient for the time being. Now let’s have a little peace and quiet; in an hour’s time we will all arrive at our destination.’
Sally had no idea what destination meant, but one thing she was absolutely sure about, she had found a new uncle. He would find her luggage and write to Nursie and Bunny and tell them both that she was well and extremely happy. She was tired and the shaking of the train didn’t help matters. Slowly Sally cuddled up to her new uncle; she held his hand very tightly and said, ‘Goodnight, Mr Uncle.’
Her new friend laughed; he longed to give her a kiss on the cheek, but war or no war he knew he could only reply with a ‘Goodnight, Sally. I’ll wake you up when we get there.’
THE STATION
Audley End station I am sure has not changed in all these years. It may have received a few gallons of paint, a lavatory chain and a new door to keep the draught out of the waiting room. Maybe their ticket office has been modernised, but in those days it was what young and old called a dump. Audley End was the station used by the folks in the lovely villages when going to the city of London and the University city called Cambridge. Every day you would see the same porters, every year you would see them getting older and fatter, but everyone knew each other.
The rich were in the first class carriages, the poor in the third; the rich dressed in their pin-stripes and bowler hats; the farmers in their plus-fours and check caps. The poor and the happy wore in those days grey caps and spit and polish shoes.
On this Friday in September 1939 four buses were waiting at the railway station to take the children to their various destinations. Some of the foster parents had come by car to greet and pick up their London evacuees. No one knew anyone else; the meeting was in most cases extremely timid. The head or chief of the arrival committee, whatever we like to call him, was a certain Mr Fred Cranwell.
Fred was a builder and landowner living in one of the nearby villages. He was all over the place, shaking hands with the teachers, trying to be friendly to the children and making sure that all the luggage was placed onto the right bus. And yet somehow he knew that a problem was going to arise; it was all going too well for his liking. He knew he had everything on paper but mistakes were only human. The weather had let him down, it was raining; the buses began to steam up. He gave the okay for some of the cars to leave. Buses one and two were allowed to follow. The children were each clutching a bag of toffees in one hand and a comic of their choice in the other. He waved them out, knowing that all of them would be well received at their final destination.
He checked his list and came to the conclusion that the party now leaving the station must be the last one to leave the train, but why did he have a feeling that an unpredictable problem was slowly coming his way? There was, however, no mistake as marching towards him as if she was royalty itself, hand in hand with the headmaster, was a very excited little girl with a trail of schoolboys behind her.
He quickly checked his final list: teacher in charge a certain Arthur Tatwell. There was no indication of a young daughter coming with him and what’s more Arthur Tatwell was staying with him. Jess his wife had given Arthur the posh guestroom. Fred decided that the best thing to do was to act as if everything was under control.
‘Mr Tatwell, sir, welcome to our county. Perhaps we should let the boys seat themselves down in the bus first. There’s food and drinks waiting for them. Jack and Marge over there, sir, have come to pick up two boys in your group, John Simpson and Brian Jones; perhaps you might like to say hello to them?’
Arthur thought the time had come to release Sally’s hand and leave her for one minute in the care of Fred, who to him at that moment, appeared to be the best organiser in the world. Sally gave Fred one of her inquisitive looks. Poor Fred didn’t know what to say. He truly thought he had everything spot on, but who was this child? He could, thanks to her name badge, see that her name was Sally Bone and he certainly hoped that Arthur Tatwell could tell him more.
The last bus pulled out. Arthur called, ‘See you all tomorrow, chaps, at school, be good.’
The boys as a welcome present had received ballpoint pens, in those days an absolute American dream, so if there was any depression in the bus the ballpoint pens certainly revived the atmosphere.
Can you imagine a more bizarre situation? Two men: Fred was short, with a bald head, braces showing from under his suit jacket, tie knot more to the right than the left, but certainly not in the middle. He loved his grub, he was three stone overweight and had the most cheerful and honest face one could ever imagine. Arthur however represented the typical Oxford graduate, in those times with grey flannels and a woven jacket with leather covering the elbows. He spoke as if he was rehearsing the King’s Christmas speech. However, there was something genuinely nice about him. He was without any doubt an attraction for women, and little Miss Sally was over the moon with him.
‘Mr Tatwell, sir, who may I ask is this young lady?’ Sally by now was playing hopscotch as if the day would never end. ‘Is she family, is she registered as an evacuee? She is certainly not on my list.’
Arthur, who was feeling tired and strained from all the emotions around him, explained in very few words what had happened and without a word of hesitation inquired if Fred could find a suitable place for a very, very young evacuee.
Sally stood by now hand in hand with her friend Arthur. She was tired. Her eyes went searching up to Fred and the expression on her young face was that of loneliness.
‘Let her come back with us. Mum will find her a bed for the time being.’ He hadn’t the heart or desire to send little Sally to strangers. He too felt a sudden longing to look after the child. What the war doesn’t do to you, he thought, before I know where I am I’ll be sleeping in my own chicken run.
Arthur promised to phone London, explain what had happened, and arrange for her luggage which undoubtedly had gone to Cambridge to be returned, and to apologise a thousand times to Miss What’s her name for the behaviour of Sally. After all, the poor woman must have had kittens when she discovered that one of her group was missing, or had she?
The three war victims took their seats in Fred’s car. Sally was flat out at the back, blanket over her to keep her warm, Arthur’s raincoat rolled up under her head. This really was magic, what absolute fun. She decided to remain quiet, not to talk to anyone, and just listen to the grown-ups. Nursie would have said, ‘Don’t speak until you’re spoken to,’ and for once she decided to follow her rules, and remain seen but not heard. Arthur was not in the mood to do much talking; he couldn’t get his fiancée out of his mind. He was deeply in love with Barbara, the maths teacher, who owing to the illness of her father was obliged to remain in London. In order to rescue himself from self destruction, he took his pipe out of his pocket, filled it with what later turned out to be Highland’s Gold tobacco, closed his eyes and spoke to the unknown: ‘I hope to God this war will soon be over,’ and decided thereafter to enjoy the beautiful scenery.
CHRISHALL
Fred Cranwell’s house was of course extremely grand. He had a toilet inside, probably the only one in the entire village. Toilets were always outside, cold, damp, and too repulsive to talk about. He had a bathroom and an actual wash basin, two large halls, one up, one down, a lovely big kitchen with a built-in stove and oven, and fireplaces in the dining room and sitting room, not forgetting a telephone and a piano, all evidence that Fred was truly a successful master builder and a highly respected citizen of his village.
The name of the house was Banyards and he lived there with his wife Jessie, aged sixty, and his daughter Pearl, aged thirty-eight. Let us be perfectly clear on one issue: only a very special evacuee would find his or her way into Fred’s house.
Many secret documents found their way into his office. As chief warden of the entire district, very little could happen without him being informed, and he certainly didn’t want any peeping toms moving around in his domain. Security was number one for Fred Cranwell; he was fully equipped from his Red Cross case to his rifle. Although if the time should arrive for destruction of invaders Fred would have felt more at home with a saw and shovel than a rifle that was nearly the length of the man himself.
Sally felt that the car had stopped. She felt very cold but excited. She peeped out of the window and to her utter amazement she found herself looking at a lovely big house, much bigger than hers in London. She had never seen so many windows before and windows meant window sills, and window sills had so many interpretations for Sally.
The Red Cow Inn, Chrishall
Arthur helped her out of the car and before he could wink an eye she was gone. She saw the chickens; a yard dog who was later to become her honourable friend number one; cats, all sizes; and above all, far in the distance, a horse. It was as if the whole of Fred’s animals had turned out to greet her. She knew she couldn’t pat the chickens even though they gave her eggs; cats were not her favourite but the lovely brown yard dog with his faithful brown eyes must certainly have a hug. She was approaching the old dog without any sign of fear, when suddenly she felt a hand on her head, and a voice behind her.
‘Are you Sally? Are you the little girl we are going to look after?’ Sally looked quickly back to the car. Mister Uncle had disappeared and she couldn’t see the driver; there was only her, the dog and this strange lady.
AUNT JESSIE
‘Why don’t you come indoors with me; I’ll give you a nice warm bath and then we can have tea together.’ Jessie felt sorry for the child. She couldn’t introduce herself as Mrs Cranwell. Something had to be done to make this little girl forget why she was here, make her feel at home and not completely lost.
‘I’m your new Aunt Jessie, how about that? Do you think we could be friends, Sally?’
So many things had happened that day Sally didn’t know what to think or say and it was her longing for warmth and someone to talk to that persuaded her to follow her new guardian into the lovely big house. She couldn’t believe her eyes. If only Nursie could be here, she would love the big fireplace and the piano, and the flowered settee.
Before Sally could have a quick peep into all the rooms she found herself laughing and playing in the most soapy bath ever. There were funny sponges with holes in them, bath bubbles, coloured hair shampoo; she couldn’t remember having such a treat before.
Aunt Jessie, a name Sally very quickly adopted, rubbed her dry with a huge white lovely warm towel and this was the start of Sally’s first theatrical game in the house which would protect her for the coming six years.
‘Aunt Jessie, I think I look like the Queen with this long towel around me, so may I have a peep in all the rooms? If you could tie the towel please under my chin, the towel will look like the Queen’s robe.’ She thought of her silver cardboard crown back home, and asked her new aunt if she might have a paper crown suitable for her to wear. She couldn’t wear the robe without the crown; it didn’t have to be gold or silver but it did have to look like one.Playing the role of Queen was one of Sally’s favourite roles and if it meant using a tea cloth, sheets or her favourite prop, the patchwork bed quilt, then so be it.
Crackers! thought Jessie. We must have some left over from last Christmas.They always contain paper hats, which look somewhat like crowns.
The bathroom scene resembled Christmas. Crackers were pulled by the two of them, paper flying everywhere. Jessie had never realised before what utter cheap rubbish was packed in such expensive crackers. Sally took her pick from three paper hats. She was sure even the Queen would have worn the one she chose; it was red and looked, in her fantasy, extremely royal. As a reward for being such a brave girl that day she was allowed to have a peep into all the rooms. She must not touch anything, and perhaps tomorrow they could play the piano together.
Little did Sally know that her new aunt had a rather painful problem: Sally had no clothes. Jessie had heard Fred say that if they were lucky her case might arrive at Audley End the next day, upon which he would go and fetch it, but at the moment she had nothing to rely on except her own hope and imagination. Although she was really too old to look after such a young child she couldn’t help enjoying the sparkling enthusiasm which surrounded Sally in everything she said and did. Jessie knew only too well that her young lodger would captivate the hearts of everyone in the village let alone her house.
One of Fred’s shirts was the answer to her clothes problem. Buttoned up from top to toe, sleeves rolled up, one of his ties around her little middle, and she would look absolutely grand.
‘I didn’t touch anything, Aunt Jessie, honestly not. I did have a little lie down on your bed. I’ve never seen such a big bed before. Do you sleep there alone?’
Jessie decided to stay silent and started to dress Sally in Fred’s shirt. The same underwear, socks and shoes would have to do for the time being.
Sally expressed her wishes to wear her paper crown at the tea table and that, as far as Aunt Jessie was concerned, was the final solution of the day.
Sally knew she had to remain quiet; there was a lot of bustle going on in the house. Men’s talk, thought Sally. They spoke quietly so it was obviously not for her ears. She was all curled up in the reading chair next to the radio, little did she know it had been Fred’s chair for twenty years, and she decided to look in all the magazines which she found neatly piled next to the radio. She was sure tea wouldn’t be much longer. She was hungry and eager to discover what her new family would present for tea.
Already she was rehearsing the questions she wanted to ask them. She must not forget the cows; what was the name of the house? could the dog come into the house? He must be very lonely outside and how many times a day did we feed the chickens? Aunt Jessie started to lay the table. The child couldn’t believe her eyes. The tablecloth and the china was the same as at home, but all the goodies, ‘Jiminy Cricket,’ an expression used by many a child, is all of this for tea? She was looking at pâté sandwiches, treacle tarts, fruitcake, custard tarts, plain bread and butter, and lastly homemade jam. She knew it was homemade jam because there was a plate and a spoon to go with the pot, and Nursie would always get cross if she didn’t put the spoon neatly back on to the plate once she had used it.
She couldn’t imagine Aunt Jessie ever getting cross and she decided there and then that she would ask Mr Jesus to make sure that she could stay with this very kind lady for a long, long time.
Sally with her three grown-ups around her resembled the magic of theatre. Crown on her head, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes moving from one adult to the other, she secretly remembered the table manners which Nursie had taught her. Ladies first, children last. Don’t take before offered, always take the smallest cake, and finally, never speak with your mouth full.
The teacups were full, sandwiches were being enjoyed, and the men were talking about the war. Aunt Jessie was walking backwards and forwards with fresh bread and butter.
Why didn’t someone say something to her, admire her crown, tell her she looked lovely? She must be able to attract their attention somehow. Against all rules and regulations she placed her elbows on the table and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear: ‘Please may I have a bucket? I want to milk the cow. My Daddy said he was sure someone would let me milk the cow.’
This unique cry for attention followed her for many years. Fred never stopped telling anyone who would listen about his little girl from London asking him for a bucket so that she could milk the cow. Unfortunately builders didn’t have cows; however, Sally had from day one established herself as a permanent resident of the Cranwell family.
It was as if she had always been there.
She took the cups and the plates to the kitchen, carried each cup as if it were made of gold, sat on the floor and tried desperately to be quiet while Aunt Jessie did the washing up. In those days this involved a primitive combination of rubber gloves, if you had the money to buy them, hot water from a boiler, and at least three teacloths.
‘Aunt Jessie, can we feed the chickens tomorrow, please?’ It was as if Sally thought she was only going to stay for a short time and everything must happen before she went back to London.
‘Sally, dear, I promise you, you can feed the chickens and find the eggs but we mustn’t let the chickens escape from the run.’
This was all too much. Sally couldn’t believe it and she had no one to tell this wonderful news to.
‘If we can find five big brown eggs we’ll boil them for tea tomorrow and now, young lady, it’s bedtime.’
Sally ran into the dining room where the two men were still talking about their past and present lifestyles. She gave both men a goodnight kiss and ran upstairs to the lovely room that she had long guessed would be her very own bedroom. Aunt Jessie helped her into bed.
‘Are you warm enough, Sally?’ she asked. ‘Would you like me to stay with you for a little while?’
Sally could no longer be brave. She threw her arms around her new aunt and tears began to flow . . . ‘I miss Nursie, Aunt Jessie, I miss Nursie so much.’
Jessie held the child, as a mother who would comfort her own child, and told her that tomorrow was going to be a wonderful day and she would stay with her until she went to sleep.
Satisfied that Sally was truly fast asleep, Jessie tiptoed out of the room, leaving the door ajar and the light remaining on the landing so that the child would not awake to darkness, and found her way quietly downstairs to the dining room.
Further words about Sally were not needed. Both Jessie and Fred knew this young mite would stay with them for a long time to come and that they would treat her as if she was one of their own.
‘Mum, why don’t you sit down for a minute, you must be tired; you’ve had a busy day.’ Fred always called his wife Mum, something he had taken over from his own children.
‘I must just wash Sally’s clothes and put them in the airing cupboard, then she’ll have everything clean for tomorrow,’ said Jessie. ‘It may take a week before her suitcase arrives.’
The two of them looked at each other and both started to laugh, but behind the cheerfulness both knew their lives, like thousands more, would never be the same again.
The village was so exceptional; everything was so neat and tidy. Everyone knew each other, and yet the folks were extremely select as to whom they should speak to. There was a beautiful Anglican church with a permanent Vicar and his wife Mary. The Methodist believers were blessed with a more down-to-earth building, built sixty years back by Fred’s father. Every Sunday a church minister abiding in a nearby village would visit them and perform the services that the church members required. Christenings; funerals; festivals, the favourite of which was always the harvest festival; not forgetting the famous church choir singing – an extremely important issue in the lives of so many church goers.
The local school was the most eccentric building one could possibly imagine. Whenever an excuse could be made, the flag was always put out to air: St. Patrick’s Day; the Royal Family birthdays, which meant in those days four times a year; Poppy Day, remembrance of the first world war. Warm weather or cold, the children had to group around the flag pole, say a prayer, and sing a national song. Miss Miller was the headmistress and Mrs Clark her extremely kind and compassionate assistant. Sally, because of her age, had to keep herself occupied for the first year; or rather, the people around her were obliged to readjust their programmes so that Sally could enjoy all the attractions and delights which the village and surroundings had to offer.
By this time Pearl, the unmarried daughter in the family, had become Sally’s favourite friend. She called her ‘dear Aunty Pearl’, mainly because she knew that Aunty Pearl would never say no, and her knowledge of children’s stories was inexhaustible. The two of them would always feed the animals together. She was allowed to help Pearl with the dusting and occasionally, but only occasionally, was she allowed to creep into Pearl’s bed and rehearse Christmas carols. Sally sang carols throughout the entire year; it was the magic of the tree that never left her mind and one of the few family traditions which, war or no war, continued to exist.
So much happened during her first year of residence at Banyards. It was a year of curiosity, watching big folk’s emotions, travelling in her world of worlds to all the towns one could possibly imagine and lastly the weekend trips to the big cities to buy ice cream and a new dress, shoes, or whatever Sally and her Aunt Jessie thought were necessary.
FRED’S CAR
The days were never boring. There was always something to do. Fred would always take her with him in his car to the nearby town in order to go to the bank and draw out the weekly money for his employees. Sally loved these weekly trips with Fred. It meant she had him all to herself; she could sit in the front and rehearse with him the names of all the villages they passed and she was always sure that her driver would give her at least two toffees going and three coming back. Only in later years did Sally realise that Fred needed some sort of confectionery in his mouth in order to keep his false teeth in and the time that she saw him take his upper dentures out was for her an unbelievable monstrosity. The two of them would each sit on a cushion, Fred because his feet couldn’t reach the accelerator and Sally because she couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing everything. The bank manager would receive them with immense hospitality. Tea and lemonade in his office, the traditional shortbread biscuits, which were not Sally’s particular favourite, but as Nursie would have said, ‘Be polite, child, take what is given to you and say thank you.’
Thursday was baking day and no one, truly no one, could have enticed Sally out of the house on this particular day. Sally could never wait till it was Thursday. She loved it! As soon as the breakfast table had been cleared of plates that had held eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes and a few fried potatoes, then out came all the tins, bowls, flour, eggs, butter and so on: everything that was required to produce the height of luxury in a time of war. Most ingredients were on ration, but somehow Jessie, undoubtedly owing to Fred’s status, always managed to get, as she would quote, ‘a little extra’. Sally’s task was to clean out all the storage tins and wipe them clean, to line them with fresh paper and sprinkle the bottom with flour. How she loved to watch Aunt Jess soften the butter and add any flavouring essence that Sally had chosen. She was allowed to roll out the pastry and make special designs on the meat and plum pies.
Cooking started to become pleasant again for Jessie; it was years since she had had so much attention paid to her chores and Sally, as young as she was, didn’t miss a single trick. Her enthusiasm and skill was always rewarded with the promise she could clean out the bowls, a delightful task which Sally completed with her finger and not the spoon.
As time went on Sally became more and more inquisitive. She noticed that Arthur kept going away and no one would tell her where he went to. And across the meadow she could see there was a lovely, lovely bungalow. She knew people lived there because smoke came frequently out of the chimney. But why didn’t she know who they were? Perhaps she could creep across one day and have a peep through the window. Perhaps she could ask them back to tea one day. She was sure Aunt Jess wouldn’t mind and then they could all get to know them.
For some unknown reason she didn’t ask anyone, not even dear Aunty Pearl, about the bungalow and decided to wait until the right moment occurred, giving her the chance to explore the unknown.
HYMNS, HYMNS, OH LOVELY HYMNS
Sunday was chapel day. Sally would go hand in hand with Aunt Jessie, who played the organ, to the front seat in the chapel. She couldn’t really understand what was going on, but she stood up and sat down at the same time as the grown up folk did, held her hymn book tightly in her hands and looked with utter adoration to how her Aunt Jessie was playing the organ. Her Sunday clothes were indeed only for Sunday. If Aunt Jessie wore a hat, then she too insisted on wearing a hat, and what fun it was to try on all the many, many hats that Pearl and Jessie had collected over the past years. Inreality Sally was an absolute scream. If there were verses in the hymn thatshe thought she knew, she would sing one tone higher than the rest, and if she liked the hymn she would sing it for the second time.
Methodist Chapel, Chrishall
Her favourite hymn was ‘Onward Christian soldiers, marching on to war, With the cross of Jesus going on before.’
Only later would she discover that her darling Aunt Jess had arranged with the minister to choose that particular hymn, together with his sermon, practically once every six weeks so that her Sally could sing to her heart’s content.
The bungalow began to take on a form of magic for Sally. She tried to imagine who lived there. She made drawings of a car, a dog, and a tall thin lady. She was sure by now that she had seen a man walk down the drive. In fact she was absolutely sure that she had seen Aunt Jess wave to him.
Perhaps if she waited until it was her birthday, then she could invite them to her party, or Christmas perhaps: take them some fresh baked mince pies, Aunt Jess couldn’t say no to that idea, surely.
The mince pies it was, and no sooner said than done, when our Sally plunged into her plan de campagne. ‘Aunt Jess, may I please visit the bungalow and take them some mince pies for Christmas and if they are nice people invite them back to tea?’
Luckily for Sally, Jessie decided, there and then, to forget what happened in the past; there was after all a war going on, and why shouldn’t this child bring them all together again? The same afternoon Sally and her Aunt Jess wandered across to the bungalow, Sally carrying her mince pies for Christmas neatly on a white kitchen plate.
Jessie’s offering was more appropriate; she thought four fresh eggs in a simple kitchen bowl would break the ice. A perfect stranger would have anticipated looking at a rehearsal of the nativity play.
‘Will you knock at the door, Aunt Jess, or shall I?’ Sally’s voice caused the most peculiar barking from somewhere inside. ‘Aunt Jess, I think I’m going to be frightened by something, let’s run back home please.’
Jessie opened the door and called out, ‘Anyone at home? Joyce, are you there? Can we come in?’
A terrified Sally stood with her knees knocking and mouth slightly open. She grasped her Aunt Jessie’s hand. She was absolutely terrified, as standing before her was the tall thin lady whom she had seen in her imagination. Under her arm she carried a white ugly looking little dog who looked at Sally as if he was going to make minced meat out of her, any minute now.
‘I’ve come to introduce Sally to you,’ said Aunt Jess. ‘Sally is an evacuee from London, has no one to play with until she goes to school, and I’m sure she would love to play with Robin when it’s not raining.’ Sally had by now a vague idea that Robin was the name of the dog and she secretly wished that she had never started on this bungalow adventure. She didn’t like the dog; water was coming out of his nostrils, and the little horror wouldn’t leave Sally’s shoe laces alone. Sally couldn’t decide whether to spill her lemonade over him or just push him away. The problem was, where to? She knew the only solution was to attract Aunt Jessie’s attention and ask if she might go back home; she felt sick and would like to go to bed. She said her polite goodbye to Mrs Joyce who by that time had opened the door for the two ladies. There was no waiting for Aunt Jess, no goodbyes to ‘Wobin’; she literally ran as fast as her little legs could take her to the big house she now called her home. Sally was extremely quiet that evening, and no one could get her to talk. Fred tried to do his best to cheer her up, but nothing would help. She kissed them all goodnight and disappeared to her bedroom.
‘What’s wrong, Sally? Why are you so upset? Tell me, then I can help you.’ Jessie knew the child was hiding something, she wasn’t her usual self.
‘I don’t want to go to the bungalow again, please, Aunt Jessie, not again, it frightened me. The dog frightened me, the lady kept looking at me, and . . .’ and poor Sally started to shiver. She wanted her Aunt Jessie to hug her and tell her that the bungalow no longer existed; it had gone up in the air and would never come down again.
‘Sally, dear, you wanted so much to go visiting; now let’s forget our little adventure and go to sleep.’ Sally decided that night that her prayers to Mr Jesus would have an additional request.
He still had to take care of Nursie, her bunny, Uncle Fred, dear Aunty Pearl and an extra portion for Aunty Jessie; however, would he please help her and get rid of, preferably as soon as possible, the dog called Robin. And if possible he would do her an extra favour if the lady could go along too. Sally was always convinced that her unknown Mr Jesus was listening to every wish or demand that she made and she was positively sure that the bungalow and all its inhabitants would disappear from the planet before the coming morning.
Sally’s birthday and Christmas were very close to each other, and war or no war, everyone did their best to make Sally feel that nothing had changed in her life.
Her first birthday cake was a great success. Jessie cooked the cake and Pearl did the icing. The upper layer was decorated with edible flowers and five candles were planted in the middle. A special cake stand was polished for the event and all the lights were turned off so that Sally could enjoy the magic glow of the candles.
Dear Aunty Pearl had knitted her a cardigan, Jessie gave her slippers, and good old Fred gave her her first savings box which quite by chance was in the form of a house, plus money to the value of two pounds and the key to open and shut it.
Sally was out of all her daily routines, what a day of excitement. She gave all the animals an extra portion to eat. The yard dog received two additional hugs, and in addition she promised him a thin slice of her wonderful, wonderful cake. Long after Sally had gone to bed Fred still sat reading the newspaper. Jessie knew he had something on his mind. It was long past ten o’clock and without fail, Fred always walked around his house in order to check if lights were showing through the curtains, or to check if the barns and garages were safely locked. But tonight he was delaying it all.
‘Mum, dear, can you understand this? I’ll be blowed if I can; there is not a simple card or parcel from London. You would have thought they would have sent her something. Poor little mite, you can’t use the war as an excuse for everything.’
Aunt Jessie, who had the genuine habit of making an excuse for everyone, asked Fred not to be too harsh; after all, they didn’t really know who Sally’s parents were, and after all they might be quite nice people.
Fred had no time for his wife’s chatter; he had his thoughts on the matter, and that was that. His nightly rounds completed, he decided to go up and join his wife in bed. Before saying goodnight to his Jessie he couldn’t resist asking, ‘Mum, did Sally really enjoy her birthday?’ One second of silence followed.
‘I think so, dear, she’s lying in bed fast asleep with her new cardigan and slippers on. The little house is standing on the cupboard next to her. You’re a good man, Fred Cranwell; now go to sleep, you’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’
Christmas is coming
The goose is getting fat
Please put a penny in the old man’s hat
Christmas was and always remained one of Sally’s immense passions. To her Christmas never died, it never went out of her mind, it was a time to forgive, an excuse to spoil someone. For her it was the ultimate feeling of being alive.
Pearl was at all times in charge of the decorations. Coloured paper chains were extended from one corner of the ceiling to the other. There was fresh holly on the walls, and a special place was reserved for all the many Christmas cards that Fred received as a thank you for all the energy and attention that he was giving to his evacuees. It was oh, so English; no one would have thought there was a war on. The Christmas tree was established in the window, horrible coloured balls were tied to every single branch, and to complete the annual presentation, or rather Sally’s world of wonders, the Christmas angel was released from her annual sleep.
Sally christened her Patsy, don’t ask why; knowing Sally she un-doubtedly wanted to attract inquisitive attention. If someone asked her a question it always meant that she too could ask one. However, my true guess is that she didn’t want the people around her to determine her irritating difficulty in pronouncing her ‘r’s, and the name of Patsy was designed for Sally’s romantic search for sensation.
‘Aunt Jess, do you think that the angel Patsy is looking her best; she is sitting after all right at the top of the tree. She could fall down, you know, Aunt Jessie.’
‘Sally dear, angels have never fallen from Christmas trees and your Patsy knows she has to sit still.’ Aunt Jessie’s tone of voice told her to be quiet. The postman had just been. He must have told Aunt Jess some morbid news, Sally told herself. Aunt Jess is always ‘down’ after he’s been. I can’t think why. She gives him coffee and bics; he doesn’t cheer us up, he ruins the entire atmosphere, Sally whispered indignantly. Little did she know that poor old Joe had to listen to and tell the entire community the latest war news. Who had been called up; if not, why not! He saw tears, he heard fear, everyone wanted to read good news, but unfortunately Joe was too often the bearer of news no one could define or understand.
Sally kept counting the days to Christmas and her flow of questions was never ending. Which chimney would Santa choose; would they ask him to use the one in the kitchen? It was without doubt the largest. Would she find presents in her stocking or would Santa need a pillowcase? Who was coming to their Christmas dinner? Everything had to be organised in her mind. ‘Please, Aunt Jess, don’t be a spoilsport, tell me who’s coming! Will I see Nursie and my Daddy?’
Jessie had dreaded this inevitable question, and decided there and then to be as short and acceptable as possible. ‘I think your Daddy will come when the winter is over. I think he’ll be here for Easter, but I’m sure that Santa has spoken to him, and I’ll bet you, Sally dear, that he’ll have some presents from your Daddy with him. Now let’s remember, Harold and Marie are coming plus little Trevor, Eric and Joyce and perhaps Arthur and his fiancée.’
Sally began to brighten up; this really could be fun so long as Joyce didn’t bring that horrible dog with her, ‘Wobin’, and as far as she was concerned they all could forget Trevor. Sally thought he was a nasty little boy; he came to the big house at various times to play with her, and when no one was in the room he would always pull down his trousers and insist that Sally looked at his what-what. Poor Sally couldn’t become the least bit excited with the exposure of Trevor’s what-what. It reminded her of the little sausages frying in the pan every morning for her Uncle Fred.
What a silly boy he was. How could any boy think his what-what was worth seeing?
The night of all nights arrived. Sally wanted so much to go to bed early. She inspected the chimney first in order to see if there were any blockages and insisted that the curtains remained slightly open. ‘You never know, Aunt Jess,’ Sally said, ‘Santa might lose his way and I can always put the light on for him.’
Sally had no idea as to the amount of bother and hassle that was going on while she was in the planet of dreamland. The pillowcase was full to the brim and Fred, as quiet as a mouse, placed Santa’s goodies at the bottom of Sally’s bed.
Old folk always say Christmas is for the young ones and Sally was certainly an example of their statement. Dreamland captured Sally until six o’clock. It was dark outside. Sally asked herself, Has he been, shall we take a peep? Madame, in her romantic little nightie, glided out of bed and tiptoed in the dark around the room. She practically fell over the pillowcase . . . ‘Jiminy Cricket, this can’t be true, he’s been!’ she screamed. The happiest young girl in the country forgot that the curtains were open, forgot there was a war going on and in her excitement she put the lights on. Sally Bone couldn’t believe her eyes! There were parcels everywhere; her bedroom looked like a toy shop.
A doll’s house had been made for her by the company’s carpenter, and as if it wasn’t enough a little shop had also been ordered and delivered by a special toy shop in Cambridge. Both items lacked nothing. Books, pencils, a little handbag and of course hankies, everything a child could dream of had been delivered by Santa.