A Christmas Candle Read online

  Sometimes I wonder if Mummy’s right and I’m dreaming my life away, Eve told herself as she left the stream behind her and continued up the lane. Here it climbed between steep banks, banks so beautiful that Eve could not resist slowing her pace once more. She saw tiny flowers and cushions of moss, and in one particular spot a small plant which had a single red fruit dangling from it. One of Nanny Burton’s stories popped into her mind, for Nanny had been a country girl and one day at nursery tea, when they had had delicious strawberries and cream, she had told Eve how she and her brother had once picked wild strawberries for their mother’s birthday and how thrilled old Mrs Burton had been. Even the city-bred Eve had known that strawberries came in June and were well over by September, and she felt privileged that the little plant had saved one small fruit especially for her. Of course Mummy would say that the wild strawberry had not been saved for anyone, certainly not for her daughter, but so far as Eve was concerned the strawberry was for her alone and she agreed with Nanny Burton that its flavour far surpassed that of the larger cultivated sort.

  Naturally enough she scanned the bank closely for several moments, but though she saw plenty of the small green leaves which belonged to the plant she saw no more fruit and presently, remembering how her mother hated being kept waiting, she abandoned the hunt and quickened her pace. She was aware that she must be nearing her destination, and when the lane took a turn to the left and the banks began to dwindle she saw Drake’s Farm for the first time.

  Eve stopped dead in her tracks, staring at the house which loomed before her. It was a long low building with a thatched roof, and was surrounded on three sides by what she took to be outbuildings. There were several windows set deep into the whitewashed walls of the house, and before it was a cobbled yard in which hens and other birds she did not recognise clucked and pecked. A wide farm gate separated the lane from the farmyard, and this was wide open. It was old and mossy, and even in one swift glance Eve saw enough to convince her that it was rarely closed. Since the lane appeared to lead nowhere but to Drake’s Farm, she guessed that shutting the gate would be a mere formality.

  And there was Mummy, holding Chrissie’s hand in order, Eve realised, to stop him chasing the chickens, because when they went to Trafalgar Square to feed the pigeons his first action was always to rush amongst the feeding birds, trying to catch them and shouting with glee. He could get away with such behaviour in London because the pigeons did not belong to anybody in particular, but here, she guessed, the farmer and his wife would not appreciate a child who disturbed their flock. Next to her mother stood a large, rosy-cheeked woman in a print dress and a white apron. She had a mass of greying fair hair, shrewd brown eyes and a welcoming smile. Just behind her stood a young girl whom Eve judged to be about three or four years older than herself. She was a pretty girl, fair-haired and fragile. She wore a faded cotton dress and she gave Eve a conspiratorial grin. But Chrissie gave a delighted crow as soon as his eyes alighted on his sister, and he let out his well-known imitation of a train whistle.

  ‘Evie!’ he shouted. ‘You was a long time. Mummy said you needed a smack to speed you up. We’ve been here hours and hours, just waiting for you. Oh, you are a naughty girl.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly, Chrissie; I came as fast as I could,’ Eve said coldly. She turned to her mother. ‘You said to keep my shoes clean and some parts of the lane are really muddy, so that’s why it took me a bit longer.’ But before Eleanor could deliver the scold Eve was sure was coming, the large rosy-cheeked woman who had been talking to her turned her head and spoke directly to Eve.

  ‘Well, dearie? I’m Mrs Faversham, and you’ll be young Eve. Your mum explained you’re not a good traveller, and that’s why you wanted to walk up the back way.’ She chuckled. ‘I dare say the exercise has made you hungry, so there’s lunch set out in the dining room, though as a rule we eats in the kitchen.’ She gave Eve a broad smile. ‘There’s milk fresh from the cow to drink for you little ’uns, and when you’ve finished I’ll get Mabel here to show you round the house.’

  The lunch was glorious and the room allocated to the Armstrongs bright and airy. In fact the only incident to mar the afternoon occurred just as they were leaving the house to be shown round the farm, when Eleanor clapped a hand to her forehead and announced that she had forgotten where the bathroom was situated. Mrs Faversham raised her brows.

  ‘Bathroom?’ she echoed. ‘We bain’t on mains water, Mrs Armstrong; we uses the galvanised bath which hangs on the wall of the scullery. Very few farmhouses this way have bathrooms.’

  ‘Oh,’ Eleanor said faintly. ‘And – and the lavatory?’

  ‘Down the end of the garden,’ Mabel butted in before the older woman could speak. ‘And there are jerries in all the rooms – for night time, you know. We manage fine, don’t we, Auntie Bess?’

  ‘That’s right, my handsome,’ Mrs Faversham said. She turned to Eleanor and patted the other woman’s slender shoulder. ‘Mabel’s staying here whilst this dratted war lasts, ’cos her pa’s been sent to Plymouth and he reckons it’ll be a dangerous place once them dratted Nazis start these here bombing raids we’ve heard tell of. He wanted her mother to come with her, but she chose to stay with him, and now she’s gone and got herself a job of her own.’ She smiled kindly at Eleanor, who was clearly still trying to come to terms with the lavatory at the bottom of the garden and the non-existent bathroom. ‘I’ll introduce you to everyone else when they comes in from the fields, but I can see you’re a trifle shocked ’cos we don’t run to mains water nor electric. Come back to the dining room and we’ll have a cup of tea and a chat while our Mabel takes your youngsters round the farm.’

  Eleanor made a little bleating sound which Mrs Faversham clearly took for agreement, for she turned back into the house, first informing the older girl that she must keep an eye on the little lad.

  ‘Mabel’s good with youngsters,’ she told Eleanor. ‘Go you off, Mabel dear. No need to take young Eve here back down the lane, nor Chrissie neither; just you concentrate on Drake’s Farm itself. Time enough to see the village and the school and that, time enough.’

  Mabel murmured an agreement, then took Chrissie’s hand and led her companions across to what she informed them was the milking shed.

  ‘We bring the cows in morning and evening and Uncle Reg or one or other of the land girls does the milking before they let the cows back out into one of the pastures.’

  Eve looked round the dark and dusty interior. ‘How many cows have you got?’ she asked curiously. She looked at the stalls and the mangers. ‘There’s room here for six.’

  Mabel laughed. ‘The cows have to take it in turns to be milked,’ she explained. ‘Uncle Reg and the land girls take it in turns as well; if someone’s on early milking they’ll do mornings for a whole week, and if they’re on evenings they’ll do that for a week as well. I’m learning to milk too but I’m still very slow, though Uncle says I’ll get faster the more I practise.’ She giggled. ‘Uncle Reg is slow in all sorts of ways. It’s all very well for Auntie Bess; farming’s in her blood, but Uncle Reg only came to the farm when her first husband died and she married him, and that was only ten years ago.’

  ‘Oh,’ Eve said rather inadequately. ‘I sort of imagined that he’d been here all his life.’

  Mabel laughed again. ‘Why did you think it were called Drake’s Farm?’ she asked. ‘Auntie Bess’s first husband was a Drake, and you don’t go changin’ the name of a farm. Everyone for miles around knows it’s the Favershams who own Drake’s Farm, but they’d never dream of calling it Faversham’s Farm.’ She led them out of the milking shed and into the next building, which proved to contain a number of enormous farm vehicles. Mabel pointed out hay wains, a neat little carriage she called a trap and a large though ancient tractor. ‘Cart shed; some of the stuff’s old, but it all works …’ she was beginning when Chrissie, whose hand she had still been holding, escaped from her grasp and headed for the farmyard.

  ‘Come here, yo
u naughty boy,’ Mabel shouted, but Eve, knowing her little brother, did not waste breath on calling him but set off at once in pursuit, grabbing him just as he would have turned into the lane. She led him back to Mabel and began to apologise, but Mabel shook her head and gave Chrissie an admonitory slap. ‘’Twas none of your doing,’ she said to Eve. ‘We’ll have to get your mother to keep her eye on this ’un.’

  Chrissie opened his mouth to bawl but Mabel bent down and addressed him directly. ‘You’re a big boy. You must be three or four – a good deal older than my little cousin Patrick, anyhow – and I’m telling you now that you’ll get more slaps than kisses if you’re naughty, because farmyards are dangerous places. Now, are you going to behave and come with your sister and me, or shall I take you back to the house where your mummy can deal with you?’

  Eve gazed at Chrissie with awe. Two slaps in two days, administered by two different people who had made it plain that they would stand no nonsense from her little brother! Yesterday Auntie Ruby had smacked his trousered bottom, and now this girl had handed out another well-deserved reproof. But it appeared that despite the slap Chrissie for once preferred his sister’s company to that of his mother.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said decidedly. ‘Can I milk a cow?’ As he spoke he grabbed Mabel’s hand again, and though she laughed and told him it would be a few years yet before he was able to do anything really useful Chrissie appeared satisfied. ‘I will be good,’ he announced firmly. ‘I will be very good. One day I will milk the cows and feed the pigeons and them other birds what have nice coloured feathers.’

  Mabel laughed again, but shook her head. ‘Time enough for all that,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Just you be a good boy and don’t touch any of the animals or birds unless you’re told you may. Even my little cousin Patrick knows better than to run about loose, disturbing the hens – they’re hens, not pigeons – because the cockerel will attack if you upset his ladies. And if you’re a good boy, a really good boy, I’ll show you where the hens lay their eggs in the barn and you shall choose one of the eggs and have it for your breakfast tomorrow morning.’

  Chrissie gave a little crow of glee. ‘I shall have an egg, and soldier boy fingers,’ he announced proudly. He looked up at Eve. ‘You shan’t have an egg, ’cos you aren’t a good boy.’

  Eve giggled but Mabel did not seem to be amused. ‘Don’t you love your sister?’ she asked incredulously. ‘If you don’t love her, then you aren’t a good boy.’

  Chrissie had been holding tightly to Mabel but had pushed Eve impatiently away when she had tried to take his other hand. Now, however, he snatched Eve’s fingers and to her considerable surprise planted a moist kiss on her palm, then looked up at Mabel.

  ‘Can Evie have an egg as well?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Must I share my egg with Evie, or can she have one of her own if I say I love her?’

  He looked so enchantingly pretty as he raised worried eyes to Mabel’s face that Eve was not surprised when the older girl laughed and nodded her head.

  ‘We will all have an egg for our breakfasts if you go on being good,’ she promised. ‘And now we’re going to meet the pigs in the sties, the two calves in their pen, the sheep in the fields and the new foal, Conker. I named her that because she’s the colour of a ripe chestnut just out of its prickly shell,’ she added proudly. ‘Uncle Reg says I can break her in when she’s old enough. She knows me already and comes to the gate the moment I appear because she knows I’ll bring her a lump of sugar or a piece of apple.’

  Chrissie was fascinated by the two pigs, both of whom had ten or twelve piglets and came snorting to the trough in the hopes of an early supper. For once in her life Eve was glad of Chrissie’s company, since she was as ignorant as he and did not want Mabel to guess that the animals were as much a novelty to her as to her small brother. She had never realised that mother pigs – sows, Mabel called them – were so huge, nor their babies so small. The sows were not at all careful about where they planted their feet, but Mabel explained that the piglets were several weeks old and had learned to keep well clear of their mothers’ careless tread. Chrissie had to be lifted up to see into the sties and chuckled and crowed when the sows looked hopefully up, eager for the apples with which Mabel had stuffed her pockets, guessing that she would be asked to conduct the Armstrongs around the premises.

  But when they left the pigs behind and approached the long sloping pasture, and the mare and her foal came galloping towards the gate, Chrissie shrieked with fright and insisted that either Mabel or Eve should take him to a place of safety. Eve snatched him up, for in her secret heart she understood and sympathised with his fear, but one glance at Mabel’s face convinced her that they were perfectly safe. And indeed, the wooden fence looked strong and the horses came to a halt several feet short of it. Mabel leaned over the gate and held out an enticing hand, and after no more than a whickering whinny the mare led her foal over to where they stood. Chrissie, however, still resisted any attempt to detach his tight grasp from round his sister’s neck, and perhaps he was right, for as soon as the apple was finished the horses moved away and their place was taken by an enormous flock of large birds heading purposefully towards them. Chrissie twisted in Eve’s arms.

  ‘Swans!’ he exclaimed. ‘Does we have some bread for them? I threw bread to the swans when Nanny Burton took us to the park.’

  Eve stared. They were certainly large enough to be swans, and yet … and yet …

  Mabel turned and grabbed Eve’s hand. ‘They’re geese, not swans,’ she explained briefly. ‘We don’t want to mix with them; they really are spiteful. They’re usually in the orchard or round the pond. Something must have disturbed them, but I don’t think we’ll linger here. Those big orange beaks can deal you a nasty blow. Come on!’

  She led Eve at a smart pace down the hill towards a cluster of trees spangled with fruit of various types and colours, and presently the geese, who had chased them a short way, abandoned the pursuit so that the girls and Chrissie could enter the orchard unmolested.

  ‘We’re allowed to eat the windfalls,’ Mabel said. ‘We don’t pick the fruit off the trees, of course, though some of it’s ready, but the windfalls are just as good. There are earlies from a variety called Beauty of Bath which are really sweet. This way – the garden comes down to the edge of the trees and you’ll want to see the lavvy so you can tell your mother that it’s perfectly respectable and easy to access. You just have to cross the farmyard and take the path between the Michaelmas daisies, and bob’s your uncle. It has to be quite near the lane because Lavender Bob comes up with his lorry and empties the sewage once a fortnight.’

  ‘Lavender Bob?’ Eve said faintly. ‘That’s a funny name!’

  Mabel laughed. ‘I think it’s his nickname because what he smells of is definitely not lavender. Come on.’

  When they reached the stout wooden hut which stood at the end of the garden she raised her eyebrows at Eve. ‘Go on, take a peek. I promise you, it’s perfectly civilised; there’s even a bolt on the door so no one can walk in on you once you’re inside. It is a bit dark in there – and a bit smelly towards the end of the fortnight – but perfectly respectable, as I said.’

  Eve laughed. She had noticed that there were heart-shaped holes cut in the top of the door and guessed that this would be the only source of light during the day. But what about at night? Mabel had said something about jerries, whatever they might be … was it the Devon word for candles, perhaps, or even a lamp? But Mabel was turning away.

  ‘We’ll go back through the orchard; pick up some windfalls as you go,’ she advised Eve. ‘Then young Christopher here can drop them into the pigs’ trough and we shall be just in time for your mother to meet the land girls and Uncle Reg before she puts him to bed.’ She lowered her voice, glancing significantly at Chrissie, but he was collecting fallen apples and paying them no attention. ‘There’s something you ought to know if you’re going to live here,’ she said softly. ‘But little pitchers have big ears and
we don’t want what I’m going to tell you to get about. So we’ll hand your brother over to your mum and I’ll take you up to my bedroom where we can talk without being overheard.’

  This sounded exciting, like a Nancy Drew story.

  They were retracing their steps through the long grass of the orchard when Eve got the feeling that she was being watched. She drew a little closer to Mabel and at that moment happened to glance up. Perched on a high branch of the biggest apple tree in sight was a fair-haired boy in a grey shirt and trousers. Eve was about to ask Mabel who he was when he caught her eye and winked at her, placing a dirty forefinger across his lips in the time-honoured gesture requesting silence. And even as he did so, Eve recognised him. It was that dreadful rude boy who had threatened to give her a bloody nose on New Cross station.

  For one moment she hesitated; already she felt Mabel was her friend and the boy was most definitely not. However, she felt sure that if she drew attention to his presence she would earn his dislike, and she could do without that. So she gave the slightest of small nods in his direction and headed, with Mabel and Chrissie, towards the comfortable bulk of the farmhouse.

  Chapter Two

  In the farmhouse kitchen, Mabel explained to Mrs Armstrong that Chrissie was tired and wanted his tea, whilst Eve took the opportunity to look around her. It was a large yet cosy room furnished simply with a well-scrubbed wooden table, a number of ladder-backed chairs, a low sink and a perfectly enormous dresser upon which were displayed a great many homely-looking plates, cups and bowls. She opened her mouth to ask Mabel why there were so many chairs, but Eleanor was speaking and Eve knew better than to interrupt, so she listened instead.