Chapter 3
Bobby was relieved to find that the wooden hut wasn’t too dilapidated. It had been given a fresh coat of distemper, and the walls and roof were in good repair. It was a fair size for a shepherd’s hut too: not large, but big enough for a couple of desks.
Still, it was hardly what one would picture as the headquarters of a magazine. It was going to be cold in these winter months, and there’d be damp from condensation – Bobby wouldn’t dare leave her typewriter or books overnight. That would mean a lot of lugging things about.
She could see Tony curling his lip and had to sympathise. Reg had gone to some effort to get the place shipshape, but it still felt like a step down. They could call it an office all they liked but at the end of the day, a shed was a shed.
‘Nice place if you’re a sheep,’ he observed, under his breath so the children wouldn’t hear.
‘All right, I know,’ Bobby whispered back. ‘We’ll just have to make the best of it.’
But while the adults might be unimpressed, Jessie was fairly skipping at the thought of the magazine office at the bottom of her garden. This, it seemed, was a far more exciting prospect than the usual fairies.
‘That means you’ll be here nearly every day, Bobby,’ she said breathlessly. ‘And at dinner time we can have games, and me and Florrie can help with the magazine, and—’
Bobby laughed. ‘I think you’re forgetting a little thing called school, aren’t you?’
‘No, but in the holidays though,’ Jessie said, not to be discouraged. ‘Can we look inside? I want to see if there’s still rats. I’d like to make a pet from a rat. Jimmy in my class says you can train them to do tricks.’
Bobby suppressed a wave of nausea. She wasn’t a fan of rats, and judging by the way her body was reacting, nor was Marmaduke.
She didn’t need to worry, however. When she climbed the wooden steps and unlocked the door, she found the hut had been spruced up smartly by whoever Reg had paid to do it – Pete Dixon, she imagined.
Pete was Silverdale’s resident poacher, spiv, scrap metal merchant, lifter, mover, painter, decorator and general maid of all work.
It almost did look like a real office. The walls had been painted, the floor carpeted, and a couple of pictures hung on the walls.
Bobby recognised the style as Mary Atherton’s, who was a talented painter.
There was even a stove, and a gas burner and kettle next to a tea caddy.
There were certainly no rats, much to Jessie’s disappointment.
Tony strode to the gas burner and picked up a note.
‘“Take it easy with the gas. I’m not made of money. Reg”,’ he read. ‘Huh. Might’ve guessed.’
‘He’s gone to a lot of effort.’ Bobby glanced at the paintings. ‘Mary too. I suppose she feels bad for throwing us out.’
Florrie blinked. ‘Is Mary throwing you out?’
‘Oh, I was only making a silly joke,’ Bobby said, annoyed with herself. She’d forgotten the children were listening. ‘Mary wants her parlour to sit in, that’s all, so Reg said he’d find a new place for us to work.’
‘So you don’t want to come and work here?’
Florrie’s lip was wobbling all of a sudden. Bobby blinked. The girl had been all smiles a moment earlier, yet now she was emotional over something quite trivial. Even Bobby’s Marmaduke-related moods couldn’t compete.
‘Of course we do,’ she said, resting a hand on Florrie’s shoulder. ‘It was a surprise, but not a bad one. It’ll be lovely to see you every day.’
Florrie stared at her for a moment, then without warning she ran out of the hut and started sprinting back to the house. Ace ran after her, clearly thinking this was a great old game.
‘Well!’ Bobby turned to Jessie. ‘What on earth was behind that?’
Jessie scuffed her shoe. ‘Not s’posed to tell.’
Bobby cast Tony a helpless look, but he was no use. He had retreated back into awkwardness.
‘I’d better get home to our Lil,’ he muttered. ‘You coming, Bob?’
‘No.’ Bobby glanced at Jessie, who was frowning at the carpet. ‘Not just yet.’
‘Right.’ Tony wasted no time in hurrying off.
When he’d gone, Bobby turned to Jessie.
‘What is it you’re not supposed to tell, my love?’ she asked gently.
‘Can’t say,’ the child murmured. ‘Florrie made me double cross my heart.’
‘But it’s something you’re worried about, isn’t it?’
Jessie nodded.
In the absence of chairs, Bobby sat on the floor. Jess hesitated a moment, then sat beside her.
‘Perhaps you can give me a clue without breaking your promise,’ Bobby said, putting an arm around the girl. ‘Is it something that’s making Florrie upset?’
Jessie nodded emphatically. ‘She’s been crying about it all the time. But she said no one’s got to know.’
‘And it stops her sleeping?’
Jess tugged thoughtfully on her earlobe. ‘I guess so. Sometimes when I wake up, she’s awake already. And two nights this week, she woke me up to—’ She stopped. ‘But I ain’t supposed to say about that.’
‘Can’t you give me any clue?’
Jessie shook her head sadly. Bobby’s heart ached for the girl. Now she looked at her closely, she could see that Jess looked tired too.
‘And you’re concerned for your sister?’
Jess nodded. ‘She won’t tell anyone what’s up, not even Dad or Mary, and she says I can’t tell anyone either now I’ve promised. But… but…’ She buried her face in the crook of Bobby’s arm and let out a sob. ‘But I wish Mary’d get the doctor.’
‘The doctor!’
‘She said she was going to before, when Florrie kept having nightmares about Uncle Charlie getting killed.’
‘Is that what’s wrong? Is she having nightmares about the war?’
Jessie shook her head.
‘But it is something you think a doctor could help with?’
Jessie hesitated, then gave a little nod.
‘What on earth can be so wrong that Florrie would need to see a doctor?’
‘I promised, Bobby,’ Jess said unhappily. ‘I’m not to say or I’ll die. I double crossed my heart, and Florrie made me have one hand on the Bible.’
‘If your sister’s poorly then you ought to tell someone, Jess, promise or not. God won’t be angry if it’s to help someone.’
The little girl looked so miserable while she wrestled with the moral dilemma of seeking help and keeping her promise that Bobby’s heart filled with pity.
‘You ought to ask Florrie,’ Jess said at last. ‘She might tell, if you promise not to tell Dad.’
‘I’ll go to her now.’ Bobby gave the child a kiss. ‘You go and sing to Livvy and Joanie while I see if I can fix this, all right?’
Having deposited Jess by the coop to find solace in her hens, Bobby sought out Florrie in the bedroom she shared with her sister. She thought she might find her weeping. In fact, Florrie was aggressively stuffing a basket with things to be washed.
‘Florrie?’ Bobby said gently. ‘Are you all right?’
The girl shrugged.
‘You seemed upset before. I didn’t say anything to hurt your feelings, did I?’
Again the shrug, Florrie avoiding eye contact as she pummelled linen into her basket.
‘Can we have a little talk?’
‘Can’t,’ Florrie said shortly. ‘Got to wash some things before Dad gets back.’
‘I thought Mrs Wilcox took in your washing.’
‘Not all of it.’
‘I only wanted five minutes,’ Bobby said, smiling as warmly as she could. ‘I just wondered if there was anything you might like to speak to a grown-up about.’
Florrie shook her head, her eyes fixed on the floor.
‘Nothing that’s upsetting you?’ Bobby persisted. ‘Anything bad at school, or worries about the war? You look ever so tired, Flor.’
Once more, Florrie shook her head. Bobby tried again.
‘Because if you did want to talk to someone, I’d always listen,’ she said. ‘And I wouldn’t tell your dad or anyone without your permission.’
That was at least a half-fib. If the child was really concealing some sort of illness, then Bobby would tell whoever she had to to get Florrie what help she needed. But it was obvious the girl was struggling to open up, and Bobby had to earn her trust.
The promise not to tell Captain Parry seemed to produce a glimmer of hope in Florrie’s eyes, but this quickly died.
‘Don’t matter,’ Florrie said gloomily. ‘You couldn’t help.’
‘Help with what, sweetheart?’
‘It don’t matter,’ the girl said again.
Bobby sighed as she admitted defeat. She wasn’t going to give up until she’d got to the bottom of the mystery, but she couldn’t force Florrie to confide in her. Mary was the person the girls were closest to, other than their father. Perhaps she would know what to do.
‘Bobby?’ Florrie said in a small voice as she turned to go.
‘Yes, my love?’
Florrie hesitated, then blurted out, ‘Do you know about the law?’
Bobby blinked. ‘The law?’
‘Yes. I read how journalists have to know about the law.’
‘Well, yes, I know a little,’ Bobby said, feeling puzzled at the abrupt change of topic. ‘When I worked as a newspaper reporter, part of my job was to cover court cases. Did you want me to teach you about it?’
‘No. This is for… summat else.’
‘What is it?’
Florrie started rummaging in a chest of drawers. Bobby watched her, wondering what this was all about. Could the child believe she had committed some sort of crime?
After a moment Florrie thrust out a piece of paper, covered in her handwriting.
‘Will you make this proper on your typewriter?’ she asked Bobby. ‘I mean, will you make it proper like with the law? And don’t tell Dad, please. You promised you wouldn’t.’
Bobby frowned as she took the thing. It looked like a list of Christmas presents. Her own name jumped out as she scanned it.
Bobby – story book with the monkeys’ tea party story she loved.
‘I can type it, yes,’ she said.
‘And you won’t tell Dad about it?’
‘Not if you don’t want me to.’ The list looked innocuous enough, so Bobby felt no responsibility to take it to the captain. ‘What’s it for, Florrie?’
But Florrie had grabbed her basket of washing and was hurrying to the bedroom door, head bowed and cheeks on fire. Bobby watched her go, utterly bewildered.
Bobby puzzled over the strange little list as she walked back to Moorside.
She couldn’t make it out. It read like a list of presents that Florrie was intending to give.
But they weren’t new things; they were Florrie’s things – all her favourite toys, books and keepsakes.
She couldn’t be planning to give away her most precious possessions as Christmas gifts, surely?
And why would she want the thing typed, and what had she meant about the law?
Jess – my half of our doll house and tobboggann and Ace. All my clothes when she grows into them, and my ivery hairbrush that she loves
Lilian – pickture of Tyron Powere in the seashell frame I made, and my coral knecklace
Dad – all my most preshush things, and the juwelery what was ma’s, except the pearls that are for Mary
Annie – my best doll Susie, and any of my toys that Jess is too big for
Louis Butcher – my whistle Reg made me, and my bow and arrow
And so on. Every person Florrie was close to in Silverdale was listed, and some from her old life in London.
Bobby looked again at the item next to her own name.
Story book with the monkeys’ tea party story she loved – that was the book Florrie had written herself, beavering away to fill it with stories.
She prized it above all things. Why would she give something so precious away for a Christmas present?
The other things too – her mother’s valuable pearls, and the coral necklace her Uncle Jack had given her before he had been killed in the war?
Suddenly, it hit Bobby what the list really was. Why Florrie had been so concerned the list should be made legal and ‘proper’. Why she had written out this inventory of her possessions alongside the names of the people she loved most.
‘Oh, the poor, poor love,’ Bobby murmured.
This wasn’t a list of Christmas presents. It was Florrie’s will.