thought frightened Barbara more than the anticipation of pain. What if she killed the baby at the moment of birth?
‘There’s daft you are, young Barbara,’ Mrs Carey said. ‘I’ll be there, won’t I? And I’ll promise her an extra shilling if the baby is strong and healthy. Now, does that make you feel better, girl?’
Once or twice Barbara took Richard and a couple of the other children and walked with them to the beach near Gull Island. Mrs Carey was glad to have them ‘out from under my feet’ for a while, all except Idris, of course. Idris was still beautiful with golden hair that fell in natural curls around his chubby neck. His eyes were as blue as a picture Barbara had seen of a lake in a place called Switzerland.
One Saturday afternoon, early in December, leaving Mrs Carey baking a pie which she planned to fill with swede and potato and a few scraps of leftover meat, and Mr Carey treating himself to a visit to the football game, Barbara walked out to Luke’s cottage near Gull Island. Leaving the children making sandcastles on a patch of coarse sand, she went into the cottage, hoping for a message from Luke. She wanted to tell him all was well with Rosita, but the place was neat and tidy and there was no sign of him ever having been back. Leaving another note in case he turned up, she spent a while playing with the children, awkwardly finding a place where she could rest with a minimum of discomfort.
She had brought a loaf and a small amount of jam wrapped in paper and a cloth. They ate it with great enjoyment and quenched their thirst at the pump from where Luke gathered his water, but she didn’t allow them into the cottage – that would have been an intrusion, unless Luke gave permission.
When it was time to leave, Richard was missing. Immediately Barbara was in a panic. The tide was swirling around the island and almost covering the causeway, wrapping the island in a wild and murderous embrace. She thought of Mrs Carey’s words about her family being safe from the fighting in far-off France. Surely she couldn’t lose a five-year-old to the sea so close to home?
Screaming his name in her panic, clutching her swollen belly, she sobbed as she ran around the cottage and the ruins of others nearby, but the waves drowned her call and the seagulls laughed at her. The other children, sensing her fear, began to cry, running with her, pulling on her skirts, frightened but not knowing why.
It was less than two minutes before she saw him casually sauntering out of a ruined building some 200 yards further along the beach, but in those terrifying seconds her mind had sped through the loss of him, finding his body, telling his mother he was dead.
Seeing him alive and unharmed, she ran up and hit him furiously about his head and shoulders. She was crying then as she hugged him better and said she was sorry, trying to explain her fear.
‘Come and see what I’ve found,’ Richard said, when they had both stopped crying. ‘There’s this house, see, and I wonder if I could come sometimes and play in it.’
‘No you can’t. It belongs to someone,’ Barbara explained. ‘You can’t go in a house that doesn’t belong to you, as I explained when I wouldn’t let you into my friend Luke’s cottage.’
‘We wouldn’t do no harm,’ Richard protested. ‘Come on, Barbara, just have a look-see. Or I’ll tell our mam you clouted me for nothing,’ he warned.
‘Oh, all right.’ She grinned at him. ‘Then we really do have to get back.’
The house had been empty for a long time and there was little sign of previous habitation. Walls once whitewashed were mottled with old paint and moulds in a variety of colours, all drab. The corners of the room were dark with stones and branches and oddment of nets and sacking and vegetation that the wind had brought in. The fireplace was nothing more than a hole, empty of any appliance with which to cook. Rusted metal gave a clue that there had once been a hook on
‘There’s daft you are, young Barbara,’ Mrs Carey said. ‘I’ll be there, won’t I? And I’ll promise her an extra shilling if the baby is strong and healthy. Now, does that make you feel better, girl?’
Once or twice Barbara took Richard and a couple of the other children and walked with them to the beach near Gull Island. Mrs Carey was glad to have them ‘out from under my feet’ for a while, all except Idris, of course. Idris was still beautiful with golden hair that fell in natural curls around his chubby neck. His eyes were as blue as a picture Barbara had seen of a lake in a place called Switzerland.
One Saturday afternoon, early in December, leaving Mrs Carey baking a pie which she planned to fill with swede and potato and a few scraps of leftover meat, and Mr Carey treating himself to a visit to the football game, Barbara walked out to Luke’s cottage near Gull Island. Leaving the children making sandcastles on a patch of coarse sand, she went into the cottage, hoping for a message from Luke. She wanted to tell him all was well with Rosita, but the place was neat and tidy and there was no sign of him ever having been back. Leaving another note in case he turned up, she spent a while playing with the children, awkwardly finding a place where she could rest with a minimum of discomfort.
She had brought a loaf and a small amount of jam wrapped in paper and a cloth. They ate it with great enjoyment and quenched their thirst at the pump from where Luke gathered his water, but she didn’t allow them into the cottage – that would have been an intrusion, unless Luke gave permission.
When it was time to leave, Richard was missing. Immediately Barbara was in a panic. The tide was swirling around the island and almost covering the causeway, wrapping the island in a wild and murderous embrace. She thought of Mrs Carey’s words about her family being safe from the fighting in far-off France. Surely she couldn’t lose a five-year-old to the sea so close to home?
Screaming his name in her panic, clutching her swollen belly, she sobbed as she ran around the cottage and the ruins of others nearby, but the waves drowned her call and the seagulls laughed at her. The other children, sensing her fear, began to cry, running with her, pulling on her skirts, frightened but not knowing why.
It was less than two minutes before she saw him casually sauntering out of a ruined building some 200 yards further along the beach, but in those terrifying seconds her mind had sped through the loss of him, finding his body, telling his mother he was dead.
Seeing him alive and unharmed, she ran up and hit him furiously about his head and shoulders. She was crying then as she hugged him better and said she was sorry, trying to explain her fear.
‘Come and see what I’ve found,’ Richard said, when they had both stopped crying. ‘There’s this house, see, and I wonder if I could come sometimes and play in it.’
‘No you can’t. It belongs to someone,’ Barbara explained. ‘You can’t go in a house that doesn’t belong to you, as I explained when I wouldn’t let you into my friend Luke’s cottage.’
‘We wouldn’t do no harm,’ Richard protested. ‘Come on, Barbara, just have a look-see. Or I’ll tell our mam you clouted me for nothing,’ he warned.
‘Oh, all right.’ She grinned at him. ‘Then we really do have to get back.’
The house had been empty for a long time and there was little sign of previous habitation. Walls once whitewashed were mottled with old paint and moulds in a variety of colours, all drab. The corners of the room were dark with stones and branches and oddment of nets and sacking and vegetation that the wind had brought in. The fireplace was nothing more than a hole, empty of any appliance with which to cook. Rusted metal gave a clue that there had once been a hook on
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