Ellie Read online

  Their sandwiches were gone, apple cores and sweet papers littering the carriage floor and it smelt as if someone had done something in their pants.

  Ellie was glad she’d got the seat by the window, furthest away from Doris and her sicky smell. At first it had been exciting seeing cows and sheep and the fields of ripe wheat being harvested. She’d marvelled at quaint cottages, rivers meandering through green meadows, and the strangeness of going for mile after mile without one house. But now she was only seeing her mother’s face, imagining her preparing for the evening’s performance, and she wished she could jump from the train and run home.

  ‘Five minutes!’ Miss Parfitt slid back the compartment door and forced a grim smile. She had been run ragged since early that morning and couldn’t wait to be shot of her charges. ‘Get all your belongings together and wait for the train to stop. On the platform I want you all to line up silently.’

  Ellie looked down the station steps at the hordes of children ahead of her and grasped the hand of little Rose James more firmly.

  ‘Stop crying,’ she ordered. ‘No one will pick you if you’ve got a runny nose. I’ll look after you.’

  Miss Parfitt said this place was called Bury St Edmunds, though that meant little to Ellie aside from it being in the middle of Suffolk. Around four hundred children had got off the train, but many more had remained on it, going on further still.

  Rose smiled bleakly and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her cardigan, leaving a snail trail.

  Once out in the forecourt, Miss Parfitt and the other helpers marshalled the children into small groups, joined by other, local women. Some of these groups were led to buses and even a couple of lorries standing by, but Bancroft Road children were herded up an incline towards the town.

  Ellie’s apprehension left her, excitement taking over. The station was big and important-looking, to her eyes almost like a castle. Huge trees, bright flower beds and the clean, fresh air made it seem very welcoming. She had never really been aware of the grime in Stepney before, but now as she saw the whitewashed picket fence, the lush green of the railway embankment, the scarlet poppies and golden dandelions, it was like taking off grime-tinged spectacles and seeing the world anew.

  ‘I want my ma,’ Rose bleated, tugging at Ellie’s hand, presumably reminded of home by the group of women who stood waiting to view the London children. ‘I don’t like it ’ere.’

  The crocodile came to a halt and Ellie gave the little girl a hug.

  Rose was only five, a tiny blonde with a squint, still bearing the tell-tale marks of chicken-pox. But she was better dressed than most of the children, in shiny new sandals and a blue print dress.

  ‘Look, Rosie.’ Ellie felt she had to spell it out. ‘You’ve gotta be jolly, or no one will want you. You’re pretty and small, all those ladies want someone like that. So cheer up, your mum’ll come down to see you.’

  Just voicing what she expected potential foster parents would require, reminded Ellie that Rose in fact fell far short of being an ideal candidate. She took her own clean handkerchief out of her pocket, spat on it, and vigorously scrubbed Rose’s face clean.

  ‘You lucky people,’ she said in her Tommy Trinder voice. ‘Here we have one pretty little girl for some lucky, lucky lady. And she’s got a ’eart-stopping smile an’ all!’

  Rose giggled. With one eye on Ellie, the other fixed on somewhere distant, she wasn’t so pretty, but she was at least clean.

  A stout woman in a beige felt hat led the crocodile across the road, holding up her arms to stop the nonexistent traffic. To their right was a huge gasometer behind a terrace of small houses not unlike the ones at home, but they were being led past them, up a hill into a pretty town.

  Many women stood in groups on doorsteps watching the children pass. It was a little disarming, the way they eyed the children up like cattle going to market, and even more distressing to hear their disparaging remarks.

  ‘Thass a rumman!’ one old lady said loudly, pointing out Michael Bendick who had a built-up boot.

  Slowly all the children stopped chattering, listening to remarks about their thinness, pallor and shabby clothes, about ‘big boys being a heap of trouble’, or more personal snipes like ‘Look at ’e with the red hair.’

  But as Ellie passed by two middle-aged ladies leaning out through an open window, a remark pointed at her stung like a bee.

  ‘I wouldn’t want that fat one. Cost a fortune to feed and she’s got sly eyes.’

  Ellie was in the habit of calling herself ‘fat’ or even ‘gigantic’ when she wanted a laugh. But until today, the only time the word ‘fat’ had been flung at her was in a light-hearted way in the playground, just as she called other kids snot nose, or big ears. Now she was painfully aware just how much bigger she was than all the other girls, and though she wanted to walk tall, with her tummy held in, as Marleen always entreated her to, she felt like a huge, ugly slug.

  If Ellie hadn’t been smarting inside she might have been cheered by the bustling town. Quaint cobbled streets, pretty little houses all crammed up together like a picture in a magazine. The shops looked exciting too, with things she’d never seen before like gunsmiths and saddlers tucked in between teashops, milliners and haberdashers. It was all so clean, even though many of the houses were ancient. Whitestoned steps, sparkling windows and brightly striped sun awnings competed with flower-filled window boxes.

  They were taken to the Corn Exchange, where bunches of balloons had been tied to the pillars. But although this made the majestic old building look welcoming, the eyes of the women grouped around the door were cold.

  Once inside the large hall, faced with a long table covered with plates of cakes and sandwiches, most of the children forgot why they’d been brought here. They broke ranks and darted forward, eyes wide with greed, hands reaching out to grab. Ellie didn’t dare join them, even though her stomach was rumbling with hunger. She let Rose go and shrunk back as the townswomen came closer to study them all, avoiding her ’sly eyes’ falling on anyone.

  Back home in Stepney, married women past twenty-five or so were uniformly shabby and worn-looking. Bad teeth, poor posture and bodies sagging from many pregnancies made them look old before their time. In fact, Polly Forester, with her vibrant colouring, her good skin and teeth, was something of a rarity. The hordes of women here, pressing into the hall to look at the children, were quite different. Even though they fell into three distinct groups, they all shared a robust and healthy look. Yet although Ellie scanned them scrupulously from beneath her lashes, she could see no one she could immediately identify with.

  The ‘posh’ women with the smart hats and costumes were getting the first pick of the children. Some of these were young and pretty, but most were middle-aged. Ellie heard their plummy tones, noted the smarmy false smiles, yet still hoped she’d be picked by one of these because that was what her mother wanted.

  The middle group looked more intensely at the children, presumably weighing up which would give them the least trouble. These women were neatly dressed, many in summer frocks, their plump arms brown from the sun. Ellie thought they probably lived in the small houses She’d passed on the way from the station.

  The final group stood apart. They were the oddest: all were shabbily dressed, some in trousers and men’s boots, with neglected hair and weather-beaten faces, as if they’d tramped in from an outlying farm. There were old ladies in this group too, with bent backs and white hair, wearing clothes from the last century.

  Men were outnumbered by ten to one. A couple of red-faced farmers in Norfolk jackets and gaiters, several schoolmaster types, and others, possibly shopkeepers, in suits and ties.

  Ellie took everything in. The jovial insincerity of the posh women, the keen anxiety of the organisers and the sharp eyes of those strange women from the farms who looked as if they were sizing up horseflesh.

  A woman in a smart green costume picked out Muriel Francis, a small, curly-haired enchantress. She saw a man in a tweed
suit with a plump rosy-faced wife single out Billie and Michael Green. One of the odd-looking women in men’s boots took the three Coombes boys, and even gave a cheerful, gummy smile when Ed informed her his youngest brother had wet his pants.

  It soon became clear, though, that many of the women gathered here had no intention of taking anyone at all.

  Rose was eventually led off by a women in a green felt hat without even a backward glance at Ellie. Doris was selected, despite the vomit stains down her dress. An hour had passed since they had arrived at the hall and one by one children were chosen, and a bag of rations handed over to their new foster mothers. Still Ellie waited.

  There were only twenty or so children left. Ellie found herself flanked by Phillip Hargreaves, whose knees and hands were covered in scaly sores, the twin boys with red hair from further down Alder Street, and Alfie Smith, who had clearly messed his pants.

  Ellie was a foot taller than any of these boys and she felt like a giant. She who could jump up on a table and do an impromptu tap-dance or a stand-up comic routine lost all her nerve. Worse still, she could hear Miss Parfitt pleading for someone to take her. For the first time in her life she discovered what rejection really meant.

  ‘Can she sew?’ A squawky voice came from amongst the cluster of women who had already turned their backs on the remaining children, clearly losing interest.

  ‘Oh yes!’ Miss Parfitt’s voice rang out crisp and bright. ‘Helena is very handy with the needle.’

  Ellie peeped through her lashes. A woman was pushing her way through the crowd. She was tall and very thin, wearing a severe dark dress and cloche hat, and even at one glance Ellie knew this woman was a witch.

  It wasn’t just her thick spectacles, her long nose, or her tight, pursed mouth, but the way the more motherly looking women parted to let this apparition pass through, almost as if they were afraid of her.

  ‘Miss Gilbert,’ the woman announced herself, holding out a long, limp hand to Miss Parfitt. ‘My brother is an undertaker, but we’ll take the girl as long as you can vouch for her good behaviour. We can’t be doing with boisterous children in our line of business.’

  Ellie gulped at the word ‘undertaker’. She had seen dozens of comic routines about such people, and although they always got a laugh, she’d always found them scary. Surely Miss Parfitt wouldn’t let her go with this woman?

  But Miss Parfitt was smiling, coming over to Ellie and urging her forward. ‘Helena, or Ellie as we all know her, is a delightfully composed girl,’ she said treacherously, clearly relieved to get rid of another child. ‘She knows how to behave under any circumstances. I’m sure you’ll get on famously.’

  ‘Please, miss, don’t send me with ’er.’ Ellie caught hold of Miss Parfitt’s arm. ‘I don’t like ’er.’

  ‘Now Ellie!’ Miss Parfitt took her two arms and half shook her. ‘Don’t be foolish. What would your mother say about such ingratitude?’

  ‘She wouldn’t like me being at an undertakers.’ Ellie’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Please, miss, I’ll go wiv anyone else!’

  ‘There isn’t anyone else,’ Miss Parfitt snapped. ‘If it doesn’t work out you can speak to the billeting officer. Maybe if your mother hadn’t filled your head with fanciful ideas you’d be glad to be going to a clean, comfortable home instead of whining at me.’

  For a moment or two Miss Gilbert spoke to the billeting officer in the beige hat and Ellie crossed her fingers and hoped for a last-minute reprieve. But to her dismay, Miss Gilbert returned and prodded her in the back.

  ‘Come along then, child,’ she said crisply. ‘I’ve got the potatoes on at home and I’ll have to add another for you.’

  Chapter Two

  Miss Gilbert’s bony fingers dug into Ellie’s arm as they came out of a narrow lane lined with tiny shops. Ellie’s heart plummeted down into her shoes as she saw their destination.

  It wasn’t one of the many pretty little houses that seemed to be Bury St Edmunds’s standard, but a grim, grey, almost institutional building, dominated by a large, central shop window. Purple satin was draped in the window, two marble angels stood either side of a large ebony cross and ‘Amos Gilbert, Undertaker’ was printed in bold, black lettering on the glass.

  During the ten-minute walk, Ellie had seen much to like about this bustling market town. Winding alleys, ancient cottages and houses from every period in history, fine Georgian buildings and as many shops as in Whitechapel. Although Miss Gilbert’s silence was alarming, Ellie’s naturally ebullient character wasn’t quite defeated.

  But now, faced with this forbidding building, the last strands of optimism fled.

  ‘Today you can enter at the front,’ Miss Gilbert said in a tone which implied this was a privilege. ‘But in future you’ll use the back entrance.’

  Miss Gilbert’s voice was as unattractive as the house – a shrill, seagull-like squawk which made Ellie wince.

  A bell rang as Miss Gilbert opened the door. She put her hand up to it and held the clapper. ‘Hurry up child,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t stand gawping.’

  It was difficult not to gawp. The room had a church-like solemnity: a black and white tiled floor, a large, dark, highly polished desk bearing only an arrangement of wax lilies and a leather-bound blotter. The walls were painted a shiny, dark green, with wood panelling below waist level, and a discreet sign in gold lettering saying ‘Private Chapel of Rest’ hung on one wall.

  ‘Is there bodies in ’ere?’

  Ellie shot out the question without thinking. Miss Gilbert rounded on her sharply and waved a long, bony finger at her. ‘We never refer to bodies,’ she squawked. ‘You must remember at all times to show the utmost respect for the dead, and you will never, I repeat, never, poke into any rooms down here.’

  Ellie had not the slightest desire to poke into anything, in fact if Miss Gilbert hadn’t hurriedly pushed her through another lace-curtained door, she would have made a bolt for the street. The passageway she found herself in was gloomy and narrow, with several firmly closed doors on either side, and smelt peculiar, heightening her fear. But Miss Gilbert pushed her on relentlessly through yet another door to a small hall.

  ‘Sit there,’ Miss Gilbert snapped, indicating a wooden settle like a small church pew, and promptly disappeared into what Ellie guessed was the kitchen.

  The staircase was opposite Ellie’s seat. From somewhere above came muted daylight, just enough for her to see that the wallpaper was a browny pink and the narrow strip of carpet up the middle of the stairs was mud brown, held back by highly polished brass stair rods. The bannisters and the sides of the stairs were varnished the same as all the doors, a murky orangey brown colour. But although this decor had clearly remained unchanged for years, it was spotlessly clean, not one scuff or grease mark anywhere. Two large sepia photographs hung on long chains, one of a hearse drawn by black plumed horses, a tophatted bearded man standing beside it, the other of the same man standing with his bride before a church doorway.

  ‘My brother is engaged in something at the moment,’ Miss Gilbert said as she came back through the door. She’d abandoned the small bag she had earlier and had put a white apron over her dress. The removal of her cloche hat made no significant difference to her appearance. Her hair was thinning and fair, secured firmly in a plaited knot at the nape of her neck. Ellie supposed her to be around forty, for although her drab clothes and manner suggested she was older, her face was unlined. ‘Come with me, you can wash before supper.’

  Miss Gilbert led Ellie to the end of a dark landing. ‘This will be your room. I expect it to be kept tidy at all times and I don’t hold with sitting or lying on the bed.’

  If that remark had been made by anyone else, Ellie would have laughed and asked how she was intended to sleep in it. But Ellie instinctively knew this woman wouldn’t understand a joke.

  The room held nothing but a narrow bed covered in a dull blue counterpane, a small chest of drawers on long spindly legs and an upright chair. Ellie put her case
down by the window and looked out. Close to the house was a small wooden shelter, where headstones were presumably engraved in bad weather. She could see rows of chisels and mallets fixed to an inside wall in leather straps and a half finished stone on a bench. All around this shelter were dozens of marble slabs, monuments and urns, weeds curling up round them as if they’d been there for years.

  To Ellie’s left the yard was cobbled. Black wrought-iron gates led to the side street and next to them was a big building which looked like a stable. Beyond the row of houses behind she could see the tops of trees.

  ‘You got ’orses?’ Ellie asked. She had always liked to visit Dolly, the rag-and-bone man’s horse, to give her a carrot or apple, and the prospect of having one close by was comforting.

  ‘No,’ Miss Gilbert said curtly. ‘We have a motor hearse. The old stable is my brother’s workshop.’

  Ellie felt a creeping sensation down her spine. Was that where he kept bodies?

  ‘The bathroom is next to this room,’ Miss Gilbert continued, her small mouth pursed as if she couldn’t open it. ‘You will have a bath tonight, but after that only when I give permission. I expect you to present yourself downstairs each morning ready for the day. I will not allow you to return to this room afterwards, not until bedtime. During the day you use the outside lavatory. The bedcover is to be taken off and folded neatly at night, your bed to be made properly each morning before breakfast. Now let me see your clothes.’

  Ellie had no idea what Miss Gilbert was searching for. She watched as the woman set aside her hair ribbons, a pink striped dress, the blue velvet dress and a Fair Isle cardigan in one pile.

  ‘Your mother?’ Miss Gilbert sniffed, finding a photograph of Polly.

  ‘Yes.’ Ellie snatched it up and held it tightly, afraid the woman was going to take it away.

  ‘Keep it up here,’ the woman snapped, examining her underwear and nighties as if searching for something unpleasant. ‘You may keep those clothes to wear,’ she said, pointing to the grey pinafore dress, cardigan and white blouses. ‘The other things are quite unsuitable for wear here. I’ll put them away until you go home.’