Above Us the Sky Read online

  ‘Miss Saunders.’ It was Sammy, shouting at her, yelling in fact. ‘Miss Saunders, the lovely fair-haired, blue-eyed Miss Saunders.’

  He was still down on one knee, the children he had gathered around him were grinning. Sammy turned to them. ‘Shall I?’ he asked. By now all the children were watching, curious and puzzled. They drew closer, the tallit forgotten. The porters were watching, too. Would they never get the wretched cases on? She checked her watch. They should have left four minutes ago, which would have prevented any of this from happening.

  ‘Well?’ Sammy yelled. Melanie and Jake nodded. ‘Yes,’ they said, the others nodded too. Ron and the other two loudmouths were watching, nudging one another.

  Sammy continued to shout, ‘Shall I? Really?’ Although Mr Stevens was approaching, irritated, tapping his watch, she paid him no mind. Instead, she listened as Sammy sang, ‘Even if you weren’t the only girl in the world and I wasn’t the only boy.’ He stopped, grinned, flung out his arms and continued, ‘I’d marry you, so will you marry me? Truly you must, mustn’t she? The children say you must, don’t you, children?’

  They shouted as one, ‘Yes.’ Even Ron and his mates looked at one another and joined in what was becoming a chant. ‘Yes, yes.’

  Her mouth had dropped open. Three soldiers were limping along the platform heading for the concourse, and one called, leaning on a crutch, ‘Aw, go on, miss; he’s off to war. Don’t be cruel.’

  The children looked from one to the other, then to the soldier, then to Phyllie. ‘He’s off to war,’ they repeated, in a ragged chorus.

  Melanie came right up to her. ‘Yes, miss, you must.’ The porters waited.

  Mr Stevens was strutting nearer, but then saw Isaac refolding the Tallit. Phyllie watched her headmaster pause and then nod at her, smiling slightly. She had told him that Mrs Kaplan had journeyed to the Krakow Jewish quarter, Kazimierz, in 1939 to try to persuade her parents to leave for the safety of Britain. Then the Germans had invaded and Rachel Kaplan had not been heard of since. Jake never spoke of his mother, and the joy had gone from the child.

  The guard was signalling with a green flag right down at the front of the train, as though he was using some sort of semaphore; the soldiers were calling, ‘Come on, miss. Come on, miss.’

  The porters threw on the remaining cases. The children were chanting again. For once, Jake’s face was alight with fun. Melanie was laughing, Sammy was grinning, his arms spread wide. ‘Come on, Phyllie, get with the plot,’ he said with a smile. ‘Me knee’s killing me.’

  ‘Yes.’ She laughed. ‘Yes, I’ll marry you.’

  Sammy leapt to his feet, the children cheered, and the soldiers too. One of them shouted, ‘Give her a kiss, then.’

  So Sammy pulled her to him, and planted a kiss on her mouth. The shock of it took her breath away; his mouth was soft, he was so close. He was her friend, and she’d always followed his lead but never thought of him as a boy, and then a man. Now, though, his mouth was on hers and she didn’t want it to end.

  He drew away, opened his eyes, and looked into hers. For once in his life he said nothing. She could feel his breath, he was so close; she could see his long lashes, the lips that she had not noticed before, his dark brown eyes that matched his hair and which said … what?

  It was Isaac who broke the moment, calling, ‘We’ve got to go.’

  Behind Sammy, Jake ran to his father and hugged him, before walking back to Melanie. Once there, he let her hold his hand.

  Sammy backed away, his eyes holding hers. He grinned, then ruffled Jake’s almost-black hair. ‘You look after her, you hear.’ He came back to Phyllie, and she longed to feel his mouth again. He leaned close, and spoke against her ear. ‘Move along to the next carriage or you’ll have them tiddling out of the windows. You need a corridor, you daft doughnut. Be safe, Phyllie. Above all, be safe.’

  The two men swung up their kitbags and headed back through the crowds, passing her mother who was staring at Phyllie. Phyllie groaned as she heard Sammy say, ‘Hi, Mrs S, or should I call you Mum?’

  She saw Isaac pause to speak a few words to her mother and hand something to her. It was the tallit.

  Sammy turned and called to Phyllie over his shoulder: ‘Remember what we used to say when we climbed the pear tree, right to the top, Phyllie. Above us the sky, and it always will be, over us both. It’s still there, over us, and you too, Jake. It’s the same sky over us all, wherever we are. So your dad and me, we’re not so far away after all.’ Suddenly he looked young, tired and frightened, and it was as though she was looking at herself. But then he grinned, turned into the crowd, and was gone.

  Her mother was beavering towards her, head forward, scowl in place, her headscarf worn like a multicoloured turban. She was wearing her usual mackintosh even on a hot day like today.

  ‘What a disgraceful display, Phyllis, here in front of these children, when you should be setting an example. Kissing in public, indeed, and that lout too. You will write and tell him the heat got to you.’

  Phyllie held up her hand. ‘Just a moment, Mum. Stay here, children, I’m just having a word with Mr Stevens.’ She hurried to the headmaster and brought up the problem of the carriage.

  He smiled. ‘A wise young man, Miss Saunders. I’ll move down, you follow. I’ll mention the change to the guard who will notify the WVS ladies who are to travel with us. Ah, and felicitations on your engagement.’

  She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t real. It was to distract the children … because of the tallit.’

  ‘Ah,’ he murmured again and then looked over her head, as though to somewhere distant. He sighed, then waved her away. ‘Best go and say goodbye to your mother, then follow me with your tribe.’

  She explained the story behind Sammy’s proposal to her mother, who nodded with relief, saying, ‘You need to marry up. You’re a teacher, he’s a sailor, with a police record.’

  ‘Hardly, Mum. He was only cautioned when he heckled the blackshirts at a meeting.’ Phyllie stopped. Her mother was thrusting Isaac’s tallit at her, as though it was something contagious. Her whisper was fierce as she leaned towards her daughter. ‘The Williamses had no right letting their top floor to Jews. Ours is a nice neighbourhood. They killed Christ, you know.’

  Phyllie leaned forward, whispering just as fiercely, ‘I think you’ll find Jake and his father weren’t alive then. This sort of talk isn’t Catholicism, Mum, it really isn’t. It’s just horrid and Frankie wouldn’t care for it.’

  The guards at either end of the train whistled, and called, ‘All aboard.’

  Phyllie picked up her basket, smiled reassuringly at Melanie and Jake, then shepherded her classes along the platform. Her mother followed, complaining that if Phyllie had converted to Roman Catholicism when her brother had the call, then they might see things in the same light.

  Mr Stevens flagged them to a stop, and instructed her to embark her children mid-carriage. He would take the near end. She thanked whoever was up there, because soon she would be on board, and her mother would not. She called Class A’s leader, Simon, to her, and asked him to check the children as they boarded. She stood aside. The children were leaping into the train now, Simon ticking frantically.

  She returned to her mother. ‘Come with me to the country, Mum. I want you to be safe. Frankie has the presbytery housekeeper to help him.’

  Her mother straightened her turban, her lips drawn thin. ‘I’m staying at the presbytery to do my bit, with Miss O’Brian.’ Behind her the mothers were being allowed through the barrier to wave farewell now that the children were almost all on board. The engine was shoving out steam for a quick getaway. All along the platform the porters were slamming the doors shut.

  Her mother added, ‘The WI is to have extra sugar off ration from the government, to make jam from surplus fruit, but they’ll be stocking up their own larders while they’re at it, of course. You can send some to London for us, that’s if you can be bothered.’

  Simon tapped her a
rm. ‘I haven’t ticked off Ron Cummins.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m here, miss,’ Ron called from a window to her right. ‘I got on through this door. Don’t worry, I’m coming with you.’

  For one glorious moment she had thought Ron’s mother had arrived and whisked him away but then she saw him searching as the parents arrived. She watched his face fall. Mrs Cummins probably wouldn’t come, she never did, and what did that do to a child?

  ‘I’m glad you’re with us, Ron,’ she called.

  The WVS ladies were boarding now. Somewhere a dog barked. Had one of the mothers taken on the soldier’s stray?

  Phyllie turned back to her mother. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. It’s just a bit frantic. At twenty-two I’m finding this – well, you know. I didn’t mean it, about your Catholicism. I’m glad you have an interest. I expect Dad would have been too.’

  The guard called, ‘All aboard, please, miss.’

  Her mother stood there, presenting a cheek. Phyllie kissed her, but longed to be held. She whispered, ‘I love you, Mum. I’ll miss you. Please be careful.’

  Her mother nodded. ‘It’s not me you’ll be missing, it’s the train, and for goodness’ sake, wear your gloves. At least go through the motions of respectability.’ She handed her the key to the front door. ‘Keep this safe, just in case.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, make Frankie look after you. I’ve written to him to wish him luck at his first mission.’

  Phyllie walked away, tucking the key into her basket, patting her pockets, finding her gloves, but not putting them on. What was the point, they’d be on and off until they arrived.

  She heard her mother call, ‘We call your brother Father Francis, don’t we, Phyllis? Take care of yourself, and remember you’re a teacher – you need to set standards.’

  ‘All aboard, miss,’ the guard shouted again and Mr Stevens called from the window, ‘At once, Miss Saunders.’

  Phyllie turned but her mother was walking away.

  Chapter Two

  PHYLLIE CLIMBED ON board and into a compartment containing ten seven-year-old girls and boys, sitting as though pinned to their seats, staring at nothing. They tugged at her heart, and she smiled at them before placing her basket on the overhead baggage rack. The netting sagged. ‘Not long now, then we’re off on holiday and it will be lovely.’

  The usual advertisements above the seats had been replaced with wartime posters, some exhorting everyone to keep ‘it’ under their hats. A guard slid back the corridor door. ‘If you’d just put the window up, miss.’ It was not a question.

  She did so, securing the thick leather strap on the brass button. The sudden quiet was extraordinary. The guard turned to the children, tipping back his cap and scratching his sparse grey hair. ‘Now, I’m sure miss’ll let yer at the window to wave to your mummies, but never, never open that window unless she says, or you’ll be grabbed by hobgoblins and mashed into jam by the wheels. D’you understand?’

  Phyllie groaned inwardly as the children turned to her, their eyes even bigger, and now it was a named horror that stalked them. She said, ‘Why, thank you, Mr Guard, I’m sure they’ll sleep well tonight.’

  The mothers were hurrying along the platform, peering in the windows, trying to find their children.

  The guard grinned as he left, whispering, ‘Works a treat with the little ones. There’ll be no fiddling with that strap, mark my words. Not so sure about that lot further along, the ones with the dog. I’ve told all the children to keep the corridor doors open, as per your headmaster’s instructions. He said something about aural aids, but he lost me there. But you’ll know about that.’ She did, but she knew nothing about any dog, and a horrible thought was brewing.

  She said, ‘It means that if we keep the doors open we can hear them, that’s all.’

  He tipped his finger to his cap, winked and moved along the corridor.

  Phyllie stood behind the children as they clambered onto the seats to wave to the mothers congregating on the other side of the glass. She realised now that Melanie was not amongst them, and her heart failed. She checked the clipboard Simon had returned but everyone was ticked off, so Melanie must have moved into one of the other compartments with Jake.

  ‘Mummy,’ Marjorie Spencer wailed, as she knelt on the seat, her breath condensing on the window. ‘I want me mummy.’ The other children began shoving one another, shouting and crying now as their mothers and a few fathers waved.

  ‘Steady now,’ Phyllie called, acting as backstop. The train lurched a fraction and the children almost fell, the wheels ground on the lines, found purchase and then they were off, with the parents walking briskly alongside, some in cardigans, some in jackets, some in their best frocks, all waving and blowing kisses. They began to run as the steam and smoke built, along with the noise, until they ran out of platform, and at last the train was clear of the station.

  The children scrambled and huddled around Phyllie, who dragged some onto her knees, while others stayed standing on the seats with their arms around her neck. She let them cry themselves out, trying to wipe noses before her jacket did the job. The heat of the day was building, and she told the children to remove their cardigans and pullovers. They did, but then clustered back in her arms.

  In other compartments the WVS ladies would be doing the same, and their uniforms would be taking a bashing too. Would Mr Stevens? She thought perhaps he would, because she had seen a glimmer of kindness for the first time ever over the tallit episode. Perhaps he’d had a bad Great War, which locked him into severity? Well, if he hadn’t, her dad certainly had. The gas had finally killed him in 1932 and every day she missed him. She thought it was his absence that had driven Francis to the Roman Catholic faith, but why, when it meant he could never marry? For a moment she thought of Sammy. Felt his lips. If only he’d meant it. Or had he? How much was an act?

  ‘Miss, will we see them again?’

  She said, ‘Yes, of course. Until then, I’m here.’ At last, with the resilience of children, the seven-year-olds slipped from the shelter of her arms, ranging themselves on the seats. They fiddled with their clothes, kicked their legs, then looked out of the window, deciding that perhaps they were hungry.

  Phyllie shook her head. ‘It’s only eleven o’clock, so too early for our picnics. How about in an hour or two? Now, I’m just slipping along the corridor to check on everyone else, but I will be back. In fact, I will be wandering up and down most of the day, so listen for me, and I’ll pop up and surprise you.’

  Thomas, who lived near Ealing Common, looked up, uncertain. ‘Just like the hobgoblins?’

  Phyllie stood, fluffing out her skirt with its mass of small flowers, and brushing down her cream blouse. It was her good outfit and she was glad Sammy had seen her in it. She stopped. Sammy, the touch of his lips …

  ‘Hobgoblins, are only to be found in books, and our guard’s head. When we arrive we will find a book about them, but for now, let me tell you that hobgoblins are friendly if a little naughty, a bit like some of you children. However, you are real, but perhaps I might need to poke you to prove it.’ She waggled a finger at Marjorie, diving in for a poke, and then Alice, who was sitting next to her, and Thomas. All the children laughed, leaning forward, their eyes alight.

  Phyllie continued, ‘As hobgoblins don’t exist, I can’t poke them, so we must forget about the little rascals. However, we must not forget the window. We do not touch it, unless I say. I’m going to open it just a little bit now, because I’m hot, and I think you are too?’ They nodded. She opened the window, catching its strap on the brass button. The noise whipped in, along with some smuts, but the breeze was welcome.

  ‘I am off to see all the others, but I will be back.’

  She turned, and then thought she heard a bark. Oh Lord, the dog. Where was it? Who had brought it? Why did she think immediately of Ron? Because he hadn’t embarked through the right door, and because he was Ron, that’s why.

  She stood in the corridor, looking left an
d right, steadying herself as the train rumbled and lurched past the backs of grimy terraced houses. It was further along, wasn’t it, that Ron had stuck his head out of one of the windows?

  She walked along, peering into the next two compartments, smiling at the children, and thanking the WVS helpers who were reading to their charges, and supplying biscuits, or so it seemed from the mass of crumbs on the floor. So far, no dog; so far, no Ron. And where was Jake? And Melanie? It was so hot that she opened the corridor windows a notch, too. The houses were thinning. There was a clutch of shops, with women standing in queues. There was an air raid shelter at the corner of one street.

  Ahead, she saw that the door of the third compartment was shut. She moved closer, peered through the window. Ron was sitting under a stark black-and-white poster of a drowning sailor. At the top was the word Someone, at the bottom, Talked. Her heart twisted but she forced herself to concentrate on the matter in hand.

  Ron’s grey socks drooped around his ankles. A rope was looped around his left leg; the other end of the rope was attached to a brown dog. Ron was showing a ten-bob note to his sidekick, Ernie. Jonny was sitting on the left of Ron, his thighs clenched together to prevent a small pile of coins from sliding between them onto the seat. He held up one. ‘Bugger, Ron, it’s a bloody Frenchie. He’s ripped us off.’ The glass muffled his voice, but Phyllie could hear perfectly well.

  By the window Jake sat with Melanie, the only seven-year-old amongst several older children, all of whom were sitting silently, watching Ron. Jake was staring at the poster, anxiety in every rigid muscle in his body. No doubt he could see his father in that deep dark water, just as she had seen Sammy. But what on earth were Jake and Melanie doing in here, in the equivalent of the lion’s den?

  ‘Gimme it, I’ll have a butcher’s.’ Ron snatched the coin, letting the ten-bob note flutter to his lap.

  Phyllie slid open the door. The dog barked, and struggled to sit, but the rope was pulled too tight and he choked. ‘Perhaps you won’t have a butcher’s after all, young man,’ she said. ‘I think you should give that money to me, and an explanation.’ Phyllie braced herself against the doorway as the train altered pace, slowing to ease through a station.