‘They’re better than they were, but… yes,’ Bobby said quietly. ‘Once a week, perhaps, he’ll wake up thinking he’s back in the trenches.’
‘Aye, I’ve heard him. Lashes out, I imagine?’
Bobby lowered her gaze. ‘He… he sometimes breaks things. Not on purpose, but he can get quite… distraught. Sleeping powder and whisky will usually chase it away, until the next time.’
Reg fell silent again, frowning as if in deep thought. Charlie, obviously sensing they were making progress, pushed the pipe into his brother’s unresisting hand and took out a match to light it for him.
There was a faint little tap at the kitchen door, and a moment later, Florence’s red curls appeared around it. She was holding a tin mug in her hand.
‘We finished our milk, Mrs Atherton,’ she said. ‘Jessie said we ought to bring the cups down, in case you ain’t got enough for your tea.’ Jessie peeped around her sister and nodded, looking rather pleased with herself for the suggestion.
‘That was very thoughtful of you, my loves.’ Mary took the mugs from them and put them in the sink. ‘And there’s to be none of this “Mrs Atherton” nonsense. You may call me Mary while you’re staying here.’
Jessica shot a worried glance at Reg, who was looking them up and down with a stern expression on his face. ‘What are we to call you, please, sir?’
Reg didn’t answer, but continued to examine the girls.
‘You don’t look like you eat much,’ he observed at last. ‘Don’t they feed you down in London?’
Jessie looked at Florence, unsure what she ought to say.
‘Dad buys us what he can afford,’ the older girl said. ‘But we could eat twice as much, couldn’t we, Jessie? It’s not good to say so though. He gets upset he can’t buy us more, and it’s worse now ’cause of the war.’
‘Poor, are you?’
‘We didn’t used to be, Dad says, but now I suppose we must be…’ The girl looked as though it would pain her to say the word, perhaps through a pride instilled by her father. ‘I suppose we might be… not so rich. I don’t remember when we had more money than now. It must’ve been a long time ago.’
‘Where is your father?’
‘Gone to the war.’ Florence puffed herself up. ‘He’s a soldier. The best one in the whole army.’
‘I don’t doubt it. And your mother’s dead?’
Florence nodded. ‘She died when Jessie were a baby.’
‘Who takes care of you then?’
‘Our Aunt Sadie, only she don’t take much care. I don’t think she’s bothered about what we do. She leaves us on our own most night-times to go dancing with her boyfriends because Uncle Jack’s off fighting. She makes us go to school, though, but only to get us out of the house all day – when we still had a house.’
‘Your home was bombed, was it?’
Florence lowered her eyes. ‘S’right. We come up from the shelter after the all-clear and there was only… only stones and dust and broken furniture left. And all our toys and books and clothes, and my ma’s picture what we kept by our bed… That’s when Aunt Sadie went home and we got sent away here.’ The child looked suddenly ferocious. ‘I hate those old Germans. What have they got to drop bombs on people’s houses for? I hope my dad kills every single German that there is. I’d go to the war too if they’d let me.’
Reg smoked his pipe, watching the pale, skinny child as she clenched her little fists and vowed to take on the entire Third Reich by herself. His mouth twitched.
‘You can call me Reg, to answer your question,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ll both be good children while you stay here. Eat up all your meals, learn your lessons, say your prayers, mind Mary and play in the outdoors as much as you can. I’m afraid it might be some time until you can be with your dad again.’
Florence nodded solemnly. ‘We’ll be good, Mr Reg.’
He laughed, and it suddenly dawned on Bobby what an unfamiliar sound Reg’s laughter was to her. ‘Well, plain Reg will do.’
Mary, smiling, bent to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. ‘Thank you,’ Bobby heard her whisper. ‘You won’t be sorry, Reg.’
Chapter 12
The arrival of the Parry sisters on that rainy May afternoon seemed to mark a new era for the inhabitants of Moorside Farm. The two girls soon lost their shyness under Mary’s motherly care, growing rosy-cheeked and plump through the solicitous application of solid, nutritious food, fresh air and vigorous play. Their eyes, too, lost some of their haunted look as – away from the shriek and thunder of the London Blitz – they started to feel safe once again. However, they would still cling to Mary or Bobby whenever they heard one of the bombers from the nearby airbase flying overhead.
Charlie – Uncle Charlie, as he quickly became – was a firm favourite with them from the day they arrived, finding himself constantly badgered to be a participant in their larks and games whenever he wasn’t at work. He was a fun and patient playmate, letting the girls dress him up and push him around according to whichever of the endless worlds of make-believe they wanted him to be a part of that day. In the warm, mellow evenings of the cuckoo time, the two little girls would spend hours playing in the farmhouse garden with Charlie, and with Barney and Winnie, Reg and Mary’s dogs. Bobby joined them whenever she could, relishing being a part of the girls’ healthy, hearty play. Even her father would carry out his chair so he could sit and watch their games, looking every inch the fond patriarch. Bobby had long felt that the Moorside residents were a sort of family, but she hadn’t known they were an incomplete one until the two little girls had come to fill a hole she hadn’t recognised was there.
