Letters To Alice. Rosie James
my parents are allergic to them, you see. And to cats,’ she added sadly. She glanced across at Mabel. ‘What about the other dogs…the Jack Russells?’ she said. ‘Would they come for a walk with me?’ Although the sheepdog was allowed to live in the kitchen, Tam and Tom were always outside in their shed, which was warm and dry and where their food and water was, or they’d be just wandering around sniffing at everything. But surely they’d like to go for a nice walk with someone for a change?
‘Probably not, dear,’ Mabel said kindly. ‘They’re a bit scatty, those too – well, they’re always on the hunt, see, for rats. They’re ratters. That’s what they’re ’ere for – and they do a good job of it, too. Always half a dozen bodies to clear up each mornin’,’ she added gratefully.
‘Rats!’ Eve said, clearly horrified. ‘Rats? I didn’t know there were any rats!’
But rats were not unfamiliar to Alice. When they’d lived in Hotwells, the animals were more common than the cats and dogs which roamed the streets. And Ada had told her once that her mother – the grandmother who Alice had never known – had actually killed one herself when she’d been trapped in a room with one, with no way out. Had crushed and crushed it against a door and the wall until it died. Which had sounded brutal to Alice when she’d been told about it, but Ada had explained that a cornered rat was a vicious creature and that self-preservation was the first instinct in that situation.
Walter Foulkes sniggered a second time. ‘Where there’s animals and their food about there’s always rats,’ he said, as if the fact pleased him. ‘You be careful one don’t run over yer foot and bite yer toe off!’
Alice decided that it was time someone changed the subject. She cleared her throat. ‘We were wondering if we could have the day off on Sunday, Mr. Foulkes,’ she said. ‘We’d like to go home and see our folks – and to bring back one or two things we could do with.’ Most evenings the girls liked to change out of their uniforms into their dresses, but they’d all agreed that they’d soon need some extra clothes – especially as the weather would be closing in soon.
Mabel didn’t bother for her husband to reply. ‘A’course you should have a day off,’ she said firmly. It hadn’t escaped their notice that the girls hadn’t mentioned the subject at all since they’d arrived. That they’d seemed to enjoy turning their hands to everything asked of them, never grumbling, not even when it was wet and mucky after it had rained. ‘It’s about time you did…you been workin’ very hard, all of you, haven’t they, Walter?’
‘Yeah, well, no complaints. So far,’ Walter said. ‘Though they still gotta learn how to milk they cows…you keep puttin’ off showin’ ’em, Mabel. ’ S’about time they did.’
‘Yes, well – I will show them…next week,’ Mabel said.
Alice returned to the subject of their day off. ‘We have walked to the village once or twice, on Saturday afternoons,’ she went on, ‘to post letters to our families…but it would be very nice to see them all again, and to catch up with their news.’ They’d also sussed out the one and only shop – outside which was the village’s solitary, ancient petrol pump – and as Mabel had said, the shop did seem to stock a huge variety of things. On the shelves there were cigarettes and tobacco, bacon and ham and eggs and other available tinned food stuffs, household goods, cleaning materials, brooms and dusters and a stack of plain white cups and saucers and plates. There were most of the bathroom essentials – even a small supply of rather dusty, nameless lipsticks (which Fay had picked up and discarded straightaway). And in the far corner of the shop there was a dark little booth which housed the post office – only open three days a week – where they’d bought stamps and writing paper and envelopes. And also, if anyone needed their shoes repaired, a little man arrived on Mondays to pick them up, returning them the following week.
‘The big problem is going to be transport,’ Fay said now. ‘Did you say the charabanc goes to Bristol on Sundays, Mrs. Foulkes?’
‘Yes, it goes at ten from the war memorial,’ Mabel said, ‘but I’m not sure what time it gets back.’ She turned to Roger. Could you find out, Rog?’
‘I don’t think it’s very wise to count on that old banger,’ Roger said at once. ‘The bally thing breaks down all the time.’ He leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes and giving the matter some serious thought. Then – ‘I could take the girls in the pick-up, couldn’t I…two could sit alongside me, and the other one would have to make do in the back…it’d be a bit uncomfortable, that’s the only thing. But at least they’d be sure of getting there. And back. We could sort out the time arrangements.’
The pick-up was the Morris van, usually with a long trailer behind, which had tarpaulin on two sides. The van was driven, most days, down the long drive to take all the produce from the farm – the milk churns, eggs, bedding straw, potatoes and other root vegetables. And sometimes the occasional pig or goat on its way to be slaughtered. Although Farmer Foulkes was a pretty good shot with his gun to kill off rabbits or rats, slaughtering his animals was something he never did, preferring to leave that to others. Everything, apart from the animals of course, was always left stacked carefully by the roadside, ready to be collected by the appropriate person, or persons, for onward transportation. It didn’t matter if the lorries were late arriving because the produce was always perfectly safe, nothing ever stolen. And the same principle applied everywhere, because no one bothered to lock up when they left their farms or houses. Theft of any kind was virtually non-existent. Roger was the only one who could drive, and he had to make the journey from the farm to the entrance many times each morning to take everything down the long lane.
Now, the farmer looked up sharply. ‘Wha’ you want to go into Bristol for?’ he demanded of Roger. He didn’t like the idea of the pick-up using some of their precious petrol for gadding about.
Roger folded his arms and looked straight at his father. ‘I told you before, Dad – I need a new part for the tractor – and I’ve got a mate in the town who I know will have one to sell me.’
‘Huh – on a Sunday?’ the farmer said. ‘Ain’t no shops open on a Sunday!’
Roger raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Trust me, Dad – he’ll sell me one on a Sunday.’ He looked around at the three girls in turn. ‘So – we’ll be killing four birds with one stone, won’t we.’ He couldn’t help smiling at his own little joke, and was rewarded by Fay throwing her head back and laughing.
Eve spoke. ‘But I don’t live in Bristol, so will we be able to go to Bath as well, Roger?’ she said. ‘Will it be much out of your way?’ She hesitated. ‘We did seem to be driving for hundreds of miles when we were brought here. I didn’t know where I was.’
‘That was probably because there were so many drop-offs before us,’ Fay said. ‘But I don’t suppose it was hundreds of miles.’
‘Don’t you worry about that, Eve,’ Roger said, smiling across at the girl. ‘I know a good enough route that’ll take in Bath on the way to Bristol. And it shouldn’t be more than an hour, all told.’
Walter Foulkes shuffled in his chair, clearly not too happy at this proposed arrangement, but Mabel spoke up, as usual.
‘Well – good, then, that’s settled,’ she said, getting up to clear the pudding dishes. ‘And if I were you, I’d make an early start on Sunday – well, you’re used to early starts now, aren’t you, luvvers, say 9 o’clock? And then on the way back p’raps not too late ’ome, because Monday’s are always busy, aren’t they?’ She looked down at the girls. ‘It’ll be lovely for you to see your families, luvvers. They must be missin’ you,’ she added.
Alice was pleased that they were going home – it would be good to see Gloria, to tell her about the goings-on at the farm, and to hear her news. And it was only Tuesday, so if they posted their letters today they’d arrive tomorrow morning in time for the recipients to reply if the proposed visit wasn’t convenient. Despite the war, Royal Mail was always reliable, the post seldom