The Twisted Way Read online

  ‘Not right for kids, ’e’s better off in that there country place,’ Robert’s old Aunt Aggie had urged and he had agreed.

  Tom’s father visited him shortly after his arrival in Enderly. ‘Your mother son, she’s gone ...’ He held his head in his hands and didn’t know how to continue.

  Tom understood.

  ‘Dad,’ he said with a wisdom beyond his years, ‘don’t fret about me. I’ll be all right.’

  Tom could not cry. The misery foisted upon him was deep and frightening. He felt lost and alone.

  His father handed him a small cardboard box. ‘Keep this safe Tom. It was your mother’s.’ Tom looked inside the box where his mother’s silver cross and chain nestled in some cotton wool; it was the one she had always worn round her neck and once told him had belonged to her mother.

  ‘Course, Dad.’ His small face crumpled though his eyes remained dry and expressionless. ‘I’ll keep it safe.’ Reality would confront him later.

  When it did Alicia Merryweather tried to console him and he clung to her for comfort and affection. She cradled him in her arms as a vision of his London home invaded his young mind. He pictured the shelter where he slept on a bench near his mother, the fish pond and mean backyard. The nightmare of broken bricks, flames and charred wood that had terrified him then still evoked vivid memories of whistling bombs, the smell of burning buildings, fire engines clanging and ambulances. Black planes like large birds once again droned above him in his imagination, their engine sounds painfully familiar.

  ‘You’ll be all right with us, love,’ she reassured him. ‘You can stay in our cottage as long as we can look after you my lovey.’ She was concerned about her own and her husband’s health but was determined to do her best for Tom as long as she was able to.

  ‘What a brave little boy,’ he heard her say to her husband in her quiet soft country voice. ‘Time is a great healer. We’ll take care of him.’ And they did.

  Tom experienced the joys of country life. Red and yellow Pershore plums grew in the Merryweathers’ garden and the yellow ones were made into his favourite jam, whilst the others were bottled and stored for the winter. A Worcester Pearmain apple tree provided fresh apples which he was allowed to pick. They were not good keepers and considered unsuitable to store away in the cottage roof with the Coxes and other more durable varieties but he enjoyed their fresh crisp taste. He had accompanied his mother to the local greengrocers in London to buy fruit and vegetables but this was a different experience. The Merryweathers’ garden provided them with fresh vegetables most of the year round. Rabbits were given to the family, together with the odd duck or partridge, by fellow farmworkers who were conscious of Will Merryweather’s fragile state of health and were anxious to help. Will had suffered for several years with rheumatoid arthritis which was becoming worse.

  The friendship of the good-hearted country folk surprised Tom. It was very different to life in south London where many of their neighbours were too busy going about their own business to bother to say good morning let alone be concerned about anybody else’s state of health. He began to realize how lucky he was to live with the Merryweathers. The villagers cherished their independence; most of them were not wealthy, but helped the less fortunate with a generous spirit which provoked admiration and awe in the young child. Tom liked to help Mr Merryweather. He fetched his slippers, pipe and paper and tried to make himself generally useful. It was the least he could do. The bombing raids and carnage he had experienced in London were for a while pushed to the back of his mind and he started to relax.

  Many of the village cottages were black and white; some were tied to the few big landowners, but all, including the Merryweathers’, lacked modern conveniences, in particular running water, and had a privy at the bottom of the garden. Cooking was done on a paraffin stove in a small kitchen off the main living room. Alicia’s father had once owned the cottage and had left it to his daughter so they were fortunate. There was a good deep well in the front garden with a bucket hanging from its slate roof. All their water had to be hoisted up every day, which was hard work. Tom loved the small green lawn at the back of the cottage and the flowers – hollyhocks, pansies, geraniums, roses and marigolds – that provided bright colours during the summer months. He learned their names and how to care for them, planted vegetable seeds for Will and helped him with the weeding and staking of peas and beans; it was knowledge that was to stand him in good stead later on.

  Will owned a good-natured collie dog called Gyp, black and white with soft fur and appealing brown eyes who followed him everywhere. Tom enjoyed stroking the dog and the feel of his soft muzzle as he pressed it into his hand. It instilled in the boy a love of dogs which would remain with him for the rest of his life.

  Will was proud of his large bushy moustache that reminded Tom of a neat thatched roof as it formed a half circle over his top lip. He was fascinated as he watched him eat his supper of bread and milk every evening and wondered why more of the bread and milk did not stick to those thick whiskers.

  ‘Hush boy,’ Will would say in an impatient tone. ‘I’ve got the wireless on now and I want to hear the news.’ Tom sat on an old three-legged stool by his feet, the dog curled up between them, and attempted to be as silent as a church mouse. He was happy.

  Alicia’s hair was long and dark with odd red glints though now exhibiting flecks of grey. A rounded and motherly figure she emitted a feeling of security to Tom. He never heard a grumble or cross word pass her lips. Will too was kind and gentle. Most of his early life had been spent as a shepherd and skilful farmhand working for a local landowner but his illness had forced him to retire. Many fellow workers and local farmers brought him beer or other produce in exchange for a chat and advice about their lambs. Tom listened, entranced, to the tales about the old villagers, the horrors of workhouses and the depression, and to the news about the war and the local boys who were in the forces.

  When Tom’s father was killed during the D-Day landings Alicia once again consoled the child. Tom vowed that he would never forget her or Will and would always be grateful for their kindness. He promised himself with naive childish resolve that one day he would try to repay Alicia and Will for their generosity. It was a promise that would involve him in some unexpected and difficult situations.

  Chapter 3

  First Wedding 1945

  The church bells rang out loud and clear over the village of Enderly and much of the nearby countryside. Mrs Amelia Grimms the organist played with enthusiasm, though she was aware that the organ was in urgent need of repair after the neglect of the war years. She was not too concerned about a few missing notes. A few odd creaks and groans from the pipes was a small price to pay for the joyous music she produced. The music filled the small Norman church with glorious reverberating sound. It was after all a happy uplifting occasion, the wedding of Janet Merryweather and James Anderson, and there had in her opinion been too few of those in recent years. There had been too many memorial services for young village lads who had been lost in combat.

  A group of Enderly villagers waited outside the church with bags bulging with coloured confetti, mostly home-made from small pieces of old Christmas paper decorations chopped into neat pieces. Real confetti was a scarce commodity. Although they were not all close friends of the Merryweather family they looked forward to joining in the festivities. There had been too many drab days during the war; this was a welcome opportunity to celebrate and they were more than ready for it. In any case brides were always worth watching, whoever they might be, especially in a small community like Enderly. They knew that Janet had completed a teacher training course and so was, in their view, a successful young local girl. The Merryweather family had lived in the area for several generations and had earned the respect of the local community.

  Janet’s dress was made from a creamy white parachute silk remnant given to her by a friend who had worked in a parachute factory during the war and it exuded a shimmering pearl-like
sheen. Pieces of old Maltese lace, removed from some handkerchiefs that had been in the family for a long time, had been sewn with care around the cuffs and across the bosom. Her fragile hand-made lace veil was edged with slightly chipped artificial waxy orange blossom, and had been worn by her mother Alicia and her grandmother before that. It was fine and delicate as only such a treasured old piece of material can be.

  Tom, now ten years old, presented himself as a shy and reluctant page boy in traditional short grey flannel trousers, pressed neatly with deep creases for the occasion, his starched white shirt for once immaculate. He kept close to Alicia’s side, touching her occasionally with a shaky hand for reassurance as she guided him to his place behind the bride. A small blue bow tie adorned his neck. He didn’t like it but did not protest because Alicia had made it for him and there was no way he wished to offend her.

  ‘You look really good, son,’ she said as she brushed his unruly hair and gave it a lick of Brylcream to keep it in place. ‘Fashionable you are, luvvy,’ she said, beaming.

  Annie, Janet’s best friend from her school days, was maid of honour. Annie wore a deep pink crêpe dress refashioned from a pre-war dance dress which had once belonged to an aunt; it was not a good fit despite her best efforts but she was proud of it. It clashed with her bright red hair but that was not important. The austerity of the war years still held them in a vice-like grip; food rationing had not yet been abandoned and things seemed worse than they had been for some time, though hope for a prosperous new era loomed large in the back of all their minds and added to the mounting excitement.

  Tom thought Janet looked like an angel in her soft silk dress. It was a memory he believed he would always cherish. Five years with Alicia Merryweather had made him feel part of her family. He thought of Janet as a big sister, someone he could trust and look up to.

  ‘I feel like a princess,’ Annie had exclaimed earlier that day with unbridled delight as she danced and swirled round the Merryweathers’ small sitting room and admired herself in the large old-fashioned mirror that was propped over the mantelpiece. Two pink roses, picked in the garden, were attached to her short bobbed hair and fastened with cheap light-brown Kirby grips. Precious nylon stockings, the seams dark and straight as a die, clung to her legs and she wore her one pair of wobbly high-heeled shoes which she had painted gold.

  ‘I hope it doesn’t rain,’ she laughed, ‘or there might be a trail of gold down the aisle.’ She held a small posy that had been wired together by Janet, fashioned from gold leaves rescued from a past Christmas and entwined with soft pink roses and white daisies picked that morning in the Merryweathers’ garden.

  Janet had laughed at her friend with undisguised affection as she twisted her own brown hair into a coil and pinned it on the top of her head. It’s elegant, she thought, and quite sophisticated.

  ‘Dear Annie, this is the happiest day of my life,’ she said. Their youthful light-hearted laughter echoed throughout the house.

  To complement her dress as she walked down the aisle Janet was to carry a bouquet of pink and white carnations, grown in a neighbour’s garden especially for the occasion, and tied with a recycled gold thread ribbon that was a little frayed at the edges, but nobody would notice that.

  ‘Make sure you catch the bouquet Annie’, she had told her friend. You will be next.’

  Annie had laughed heartily. ‘I don’t know about that,’ she retorted. ‘I haven’t met Mr Right yet and I’m not likely to in this dump.’

  Tom was puzzled. He thought they were all lucky to live in Enderly. It was not a dump. He knew what a dump was and this was not one. It was a pretty village surrounded by green fields and clean fresh air. His home in London could be described by some as a dump but even that had been a happy place when he had his mum and his dad and they had given him love and affection.

  The small grey stone village church of St Stephen’s had been decorated with loving and skilful hands by a couple of elderly spinsters, Ivy and Pat. They had used simple indigenous greenery together with some of their own garden flowers. An abundance of blooms – red, yellow, blue and vibrant orange lifted their heads from dark green leaves and filled the church with a mixture of light floral scents.

  A tiny brown bird darted suddenly through the church doorway and it took at least half an hour for the church wardens to drive the frightened creature outside again, but not before the bird made a mess down one of the church columns.

  ‘That’s a good luck omen,’ said the superstitious Pat, but the verger was not so sure as it would be his job to clean the stone later.

  ‘I could have done without that,’ he grouched, looking at the nasty white mark with distaste. ‘It spoils the look of the place!’

  Nobody in the congregation noticed. They were waiting with unconcealed enthusiasm to get a glimpse of the bride and groom. The old carved pews were soon packed with friends and family ready to follow the wedding service and sing the chosen hymns with gusto. Hymn sheets rustled as heads turned to watch the lovely young bride walk up with aisle with her father. The congregation wore their Sunday-best clothes and listened intently as the vicar pronounced Janet and James husband and wife. A sea of voile hats that had not seen the light of day for several years bobbed up and down like puffs of coloured cotton wool, though a few of them emitted a strong smell of mothballs. There was a hush when the congregation listened to the words ‘I do’ from each of them, words that would bind them together in holy matrimony. Tom stood close to Janet and felt as though he would burst with pride. He had never been to a wedding before and he thought Janet, his adopted sister, looked perfect, so pretty; he was the luckiest boy alive.

  The sun shone through the old leaded paned windows, though the red, green and white glass on which were depicted various religious scenes: Jesus, the shepherd and his sheep, the disciples and other biblical characters, beautifully painted and donated by past village squires and other local benefactors. The church became alive with light and hope.

  ‘What a wonderful service, they are such a lovely couple. It was perfect,’ the locals were saying as Janet and James left the church.

  James’s parents were dead but his sister Anne, her husband Richard Brown, their two small children and several friends, including the best man John, represented the Anderson family. Tom looked at Anne’s children, Felicity and Ronald, with interest. He supposed that they were now part of the Merryweather family so in a way part of his family too. The girl Felicity he guessed was about two years old. She had fidgeted and scowled throughout the service. He did not think she looked very nice with her unattractive odd blue eyes and mousy blonde hair. The baby boy of only a few months was pale and quiet. Tom had no idea about the part these children would play in his future.

  Alicia and her friend Ada had worked hard. They had scrounged ingredients from various friends to produce a cake and refreshments for the guests to enjoy in the Merryweathers’ home after the service. The icing was amateurish, hard and crumbly in places and the bride and groom dolls on the top were oddly dressed but Janet thought it was the best wedding cake she had ever seen and her excitement escalated. Fortunately she, like Tom, had no inkling of the sorrow that was to come. The small cottage and garden were filled with friends and family. Trestle tables and chairs had been borrowed for the guests from the village hall, but nobody minded the lack of space, they were too busy nibbling the cake and refreshments to care. It was a rare treat and they knew it. Tom sank his teeth into a slice of iced cake, the unaccustomed sweetness filled his mouth and he thought he was in heaven. How lucky he was to be billeted with the Merryweather family.

  The bride and groom were toasted with wine that had been given to the Merryweathers by their old friend Michael Cross, who had been the proprietor of the local pub, the Green Man, for more years than they could remember. ‘It’s my contribution to this happy day,’ he said. Nobody asked any questions. It was quite old and a good vintage wine; he must have had it secreted away in his cellar for ma
ny years. They were thankful to have it.

  ‘Darling James,’ Janet had said to her handsome fiancé the evening before as he held her close in a passionate embrace and pressed her soft breasts with almost callous firmness against his broad chest.

  ‘I can hardly wait until tomorrow,’ he had whispered in her ear, his deep voice sending shivers down her spine as he ran his hands down her back, caressing her slim body and neat rounded buttocks with his large masculine hands.

  Sex before marriage was frowned on in the nineteen forties but they would soon be man and wife and James was keen to possess this attractive woman. Janet had not given in to his demands and slept with him as some women had so had kept his attention and respect. ‘You’ll soon be mine,’ he murmured, his breath hot upon her neck, as she leaned against him, subservient and willing.

  Janet didn’t really know much about James’s family but was not concerned; it was James she was marrying, not the Anderson clan although that was something that would rebound on her later. It had been a swift wartime romance and she was very much in love, or imagined she was, with her handsome fiancé. The broad-shouldered man in his glamorous naval uniform had literally swept her off her feet and her usual common sense deserted her. James had made an effort to eliminate his London accent when he joined the navy and his voice was deep and attractive, especially to the young women with whom he worked. He acted the role of the middle-class officer perfectly, although secretly he despised the upper classes.

  Janet had been a pupil at the local Everton grammar school and after gaining a Higher Schools Certificate she spent a year with an elderly aunt in Yorkshire before taking a two-year teaching training course in Russhampton, the Russetshire county town. She planned to teach in a local primary school but with war being declared in 1939 she joined the Wrens.