Molly Green - An Orphan in the Snow

Bertie looked up at the wall clock, which showed five minutes past eleven. ‘Not until one o’clock.’ Her eyes pierced June’s. ‘Here, I’ll cut you a slice of cake. Don’t tell anyone, mind. It’s supposed to be for the children’s teatime.’

‘I haven’t heard any sound from them,’ June ventured, pouring herself a cup of tea. ‘Are they out somewhere?’

Bertie snorted. ‘No, dear, not at this time of the morning. They’re all in class. These walls are solid. The Victorians really knew how to build. You’ll not hear a peep unless they’re in the next room or right on top of you. Except the wee bairn in the corner.’ She jerked her head to where a child sat silently watching on a three-legged stool in the unlit corner of the room.

June glanced where Bertie had gestured and saw a little girl with pale blonde hair tied up in plaits, and a face like an angel, sucking her fingers. How could she have not noticed her? And there was something familiar about the child. June looked closer and her heart suddenly gave a great lurch. She gasped. The little girl looked the spitting image of her sister Clara when she was that age.

‘Say hello to the nice new lady who’s come to look after you and the other children,’ Bertie said to the child, then turned her head to June and lowered her voice. ‘Poor wee lass doesn’t talk. She’s not said a word since she came here … that’d be a coupla months now. We all thought she was dumb at first. Now we know it’s a mental thing.’

Poor little girl. Whatever could have happened?

June half rose from her chair, but Bertie put a warning hand out. ‘Maybe not come too close at first … don’t want to frighten her any more than she is already.’

‘How old is she?’ June whispered.

‘Three and a half.’

Her eyes filling with tears at such a likeness to her sister, June managed to smile across at the child. ‘Hello, little one. Can you tell me your name?’

‘She won’t answer,’ Bertie cut in. ‘Her name’s Lizzie. But it doesn’t seem to mean anything to her. No reaction or nothing. I’ll explain later – when she’s taking a nap – how she ended up here.’

‘Hello, Lizzie,’ June said, still smiling. The child stared. Even from several feet away she could see that Lizzie’s eyes were dark, unlike Clara’s, which had been a grassy-green just like June’s own, but the child’s other features, the shape of her face – it brought back all the pain again. She felt herself tremble, her nerves on edge. Trying to calm herself she sipped her tea, her heartbeat slowing. She’d be all right. She’d be safe here. Mustn’t go to pieces or she’d be no help to the children. Bertie was right. It was best to keep a distance until Lizzie began to trust her. Something terrible must have happened that had shocked the child.

She finished her tea just as a nurse, a halo of dark curls escaping from her cap, put her head around the door.

‘Oh, there you are. The Fierce One told me you’d arrived.’ She grinned and came into the room.

‘The Fierce One?’ June questioned.

‘Matron.’ The nurse laughed and Bertie joined in. ‘That’s what we all call her – Pherson, the Fierce One.’ She looked June up and down and stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Iris Marchant. And you are …?’

‘June Lavender.’ June took Iris’s warm hand in her own cold one.

‘Well, we should get on a treat,’ Nurse Marchant said, shrieking with laughter, ‘what with us being a couple of flowers.’

June laughed too. How wonderful that there was a young woman, not much older than herself, working at Dr Barnardo’s. She was sure they’d be friends. Iris poured herself a cup of tea and gulped it down in a few mouthfuls.

‘And months,’ June added, grinning. Nurse Marchant looked puzzled. ‘June and March … ant. And I was born in June – hence my name.’

‘Oh, I get it.’ The nurse chuckled. ‘By the way, I’m Iris when we’re off-duty – and you’ll be June. But definitely not in front of the Fierce One, whether we’re working or not.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ June said, glancing at the clock. ‘She sounds a stickler.’

‘She is.’ Iris nodded. ‘You need to keep on the right side of her, which is difficult, as it’s nigh impossible to tell what her right side is.’ She chuckled again.

‘You don’t sound like a northerner,’ June said.

‘Me?’ Iris pointed to herself. ‘Definitely not. I couldn’t live up here for good if you paid me. I’m from Kent. Not a good place to be in this bloody war.’ June flinched at the swear word. ‘Though it was quite thrilling seeing the Battle of Britain going on right above my head. My two young brothers went mad with excitement. Daft little buggers. They can’t wait to be old enough to join up.’

June took a piece of Bertie’s delicious fruit cake, barely taking in all Iris was telling her. ‘I’ve been sent here and here I’ll stay,’ Iris rattled on, ‘but not a moment longer after the war’s over … whenever that will be. Luckily, the children keep me on my toes with their various shenanigans. And there’s plenty of food. That’s a draw in itself.’ She grinned.

‘Isn’t the food rationed?’

‘Some things,’ Iris said. ‘But the government looks after institutions, particularly when there are children. And we grow our own vegetables and have a few chickens so we do all right here.’

June put her cup down. The twenty minutes must be up by now.

‘I’m to meet Matron after I’ve finished my cup of tea,’ she said.

Iris pulled a face. ‘She’s such a tartar. Barely gives you time to unpack before she has you working. You’d better get going then. Don’t want to get in her bad books on your first morning.’

With more than a flicker of apprehension June went in search of Matron, who was already waiting outside her office, tapping her large foot impatiently.

‘Right, there you are at last,’ Matron said abruptly. ‘We’ll do the classrooms first.’

With that, she strode down the corridor, June following closely. She opened a door without knocking, then marched into a classroom of about fifteen children. Immediately the children scrambled to their feet, even two small boys not more than five or six years old, looking wide-eyed at the new lady in their midst. The older children, maybe ten or eleven years old, shuffled as they stood, and June saw a yellow-haired boy dig a dark-skinned child in the ribs. The child gave a yelp. All of them stared at her.

‘Miss Graham?’ Matron said, almost as a demand.

A woman of about June’s own height and figure, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled back in a soft, shining Victory Roll, finished wiping the blackboard and put the rubber neatly back on the ledge. June couldn’t help being conscious of her own hair, so thick it refused to be properly styled and would simply fall to her shoulders in unruly waves if she didn’t keep it tied back. The young woman, Miss Graham, came towards them with quick determined steps, her heels clicking on the wooden floor.

‘Miss Graham, this is Miss Lavender,’ Matron said. ‘She’s my new assistant – come to help me with the load.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ Miss Graham had a clipped accent. Her hazel eyes held no gleam of enthusiasm as she extended her hand to June. ‘I’m Athena Graham.’ June sent her a questioning look. ‘Yes, ghastly, isn’t it? Blame it on my mother, who was a Greek nut. I teach English and mathematics, by the way – to all ages, as you can see.’ She dropped her hand. ‘I hope you’ll be happy with us.’

Athena Graham didn’t sound a particularly happy person herself. Maybe the boys played her up, yet somehow June couldn’t see her allowing them to get the better of her.