Lizzie and the Lost Baby Read online

  A large pair of shiny black shoes appeared in her field of view. “Hello there. I’m Fred Arbuthnot and this is my wife, Madge,” a gruff voice said.

  Lizzie looked up to find the policeman leaning forward and reading the nametags pinned to their coats. “Lizzie and Peter Dewhurst. How old are you two?”

  “I’m ten and Peter’s seven.”

  “Well, you’re to come with us,” the policeman said. “Our Madge here will take you home. I’ve to stay and keep this lot under control.” He turned and strode around the room, greeting the adults and patting children on the head.

  The woman in the raincoat stretched her lips into a thin smile. “You’d better not expect anything fancy from us. Plain food and plain talk, that’s what you’ll get. Come along.” She picked up their suitcase, turned on her heels, and walked toward the door.

  Lizzie and Peter followed.

  Outside, the drizzle had turned to a steady soaking rain. Madge heaved their suitcase into a wicker basket fastened to the front of a battered bicycle. She looked up at the sky and tied her scarf over her hair. “You’d better hurry. It’s a mile up the dale to our house, and this is set in for the day.”

  “What’s a dale?” Peter asked.

  “Yorkshire born and you don’t know what a dale is!” Madge shook her head as if her worst fears about them had been confirmed. “Dale’s another name for a valley. This here’s Swainedale. Up there’s Blackfriar’s Moor. And our house is up there.” She waved her arm at the misty distance.

  Lizzie squinted through the rain. She’d never seen moorland, but from the descriptions in her favorite book, The Secret Garden, she thought it must be rough and wild. She’d have to wait for the weather to clear before she could see for herself.

  They walked on past honey-colored stone cottages with neat vegetable gardens.

  Madge turned up her collar. “This weather’s not fit for ducks.”

  Rain dripping from the brim of his cap, Peter grinned up at her. “Or frogs or geese or tadpoles.”

  Madge smiled down at him.

  Peter had charmed Madge without even trying. It was easy for him with his long eyelashes and cheeky smile—he didn’t have rabbit teeth and hair that frizzed in the damp.

  Madge pushed her squeaky bike past the houses on the outskirts of the village and up a muddy lane lined on either side by thick hedges. Lizzie and Peter trudged on, following Madge past desolate fields surrounded by walls made of mossy rocks piled higgledy-piggledy upon one another. Lizzie’s satchel strap dug into her shoulder, and her socks were soon soaking wet, but she didn’t dare complain.

  They walked for a long time without seeing any more buildings until a bleak row of gray stone houses materialized out of the mist in front of them. The houses looked out of place, as if a giant had picked them up and dropped them in the middle of the dripping valley instead of in some town or city.

  Madge trundled her bike along a rutted muddy lane at the back of the houses and leaned it against a wall next to a blue door. “This is our house, but you’re not staying with us because Susan, my daughter, is home again. You’ll not see much of her though. She works for the colonel, and he keeps her busy until all hours.”

  She hesitated before saying, “You’re to stay next door with our Elsie. She’s not been well. Mind you don’t upset her.”

  Madge opened a green door at the back of the next house, and Lizzie stepped through it into a chilly kitchen. She removed her shoes, leaving them on the bristly doormat, and stood in her wet socks on a cold flagstone floor.

  A woman with straggly hair sat in a rocking chair beside the stove. She wore a baggy cardigan over a flower-print dress. Younger and thinner than Madge, she looked frail, as if she would crumple at a touch.

  Madge raised her voice and spoke slowly. “Elsie, this here’s Lizzie and Peter. They’re the evacuees I told you about.”

  The woman turned her head to look at them. Her eyes were the color of winter sky in her pale face. She didn’t speak.

  Peter walked across the room leaving damp sock prints on the floor. He held out his hand to the silent woman. “Hello. I’m Peter.”

  The woman stared into the space above his head. She was more ghost than person.

  Chapter Four

  LIZZIE

  MADGE POINTED TO the curved-back chairs beside the kitchen table. “Don’t stand there like a couple of turnips. Sit yourselves down. It’s shepherd’s pie for supper.”

  Protecting her hands with a frayed towel, she lifted a casserole dish out of the oven and doled portions of food onto chipped china plates.

  Beneath her mound of mashed potato, Lizzie found a thin layer of sludgy brown gravy with bits of onion, carrot, and turnip, but no meat; her mother always put meat in shepherd’s pie. But it had been a long time since they’d eaten their potted meat sandwiches and Lizzie was ravenous, so she ate her meal.

  Elsie’s food congealed on her plate.

  Worry lines appeared at the bridge of Madge’s nose. “Not hungry, love? Never mind. I’ll heat it up for you later.”

  She wiped her hands on the frayed towel and picked up the suitcase. “You two can wash the dishes after you’ve unpacked your things. First, come and see your room.”

  She lugged the suitcase up a steep, narrow staircase to the side of the kitchen. At the top was a tiny landing with two doors. Madge leaned her shoulder against one and shoved until it creaked open.

  “Damp makes it stick,” she said.

  An oil lamp burned on a small table beside a narrow bed covered with a mud-colored blanket. A faded threadbare rug in the middle of the floor hid some of the yellowed linoleum. Thick blackout curtains covered the window, turning the room into a gloomy cave.

  “There’s only one bed,” Peter said.

  Madge raised an eyebrow at him. “We’re not made of money. You can share with your sister. The privy’s down the garden. There’s a pot under the bed if you need to go at night, but you’ll have to empty it yourselves.”

  “What’s wrong with Elsie?” Peter asked. “Why didn’t she talk to us? Why didn’t she eat her supper?”

  Madge planted her solid frame by the door and folded her arms over her chest. “There’s nothing wrong with her. Elsie’s my sister and I’ll thank you not to gossip about her. I’m off home now. Don’t forget to wash those plates.”

  She hurried out, leaving them alone in the drab room.

  The springs squeaked when Peter bounced on the sagging bed. “Why doesn’t Elsie speak?”

  “I don’t know,” Lizzie said.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will she ever speak?”

  “I don’t know. And Madge said we’re not to talk about it. You go downstairs while I unpack our things. It’s warmer in the kitchen than it is up here.”

  Blustery gusts of wind sent rain tapping against the window. Lizzie shivered at the lonely sound. She unpacked the suitcase and arranged their clothes in the empty drawer of an old washstand, tucking Nana’s stamps into a corner.

  Sitting on the edge of the lumpy bed, she un-buckled her satchel and took out her well-thumbed copy of The Secret Garden. It was the story of Mary Lennox, an orphan sent from India to live with strangers in the Yorkshire countryside. Lizzie pressed the book to her chest. Just like Mary, Lizzie had been sent away from home to live with strangers. But Mary had been sent to Misselthwaite Manor, an enormous house with servants to do all the work. Lizzie had been sent to live in this small, cold, gloomy house with a woman who didn’t speak.

  Lizzie pulled the stiff blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders; it smelled of mothballs and dust. Surely if her mother knew just how dismal Elsie’s house was, she’d come to bring them home.

  Lizzie tore a sheet of paper from her notepad and laid it on the wobbly bedside table. She filled her new pen with ink and wrote:

  Dear Mummy,

  We have to live with a woman called Elsie. Her house is cold and the
toilet’s outside. I have to share a bed with Peter and it’s only got one blanket. There’s something wrong with Elsie. She doesn’t speak. Elsie’s sister Madge lives next door and she’s bad-tempered. Please don’t make us stay here.

  Love, Lizzie xxx

  After slipping her mother’s letter into an envelope, Lizzie began another. She thanked her grandmother for the lovely new pen and described the long, boring train journey and the miserable walk through the pouring rain to Elsie’s house. “I don’t like it here,” she wrote. “Please can you tell Mummy to let us come home?”

  As soon as she could, Lizzie would find a postbox and send the letters. Surely her mother would never abandon her to this miserable place.

  Would she?

  Chapter Five

  LIZZIE

  IN THE MORNING, Lizzie slipped out of bed and dressed quickly in the freezing room. She drew back the blackout curtains to be greeted by cloudy skies but no rain.

  Beyond the road at the front of the house, she saw a hilly field and a muddy track leading up to a farmhouse with a big stone barn. A sheep paused in its task of nibbling the grassy verge. With its jet-black head and fluffy coat, it looked as if it had stepped out of a nursery rhyme. More of the animals grazed nearby. She watched them for a few minutes, fascinated by the sight of farm animals wandering wherever they pleased.

  Then she shook Peter awake. “Come and see the sheep.”

  He was out of bed and kneeling on the window seat in an instant. “Whose are they? Why don’t they run away?”

  “I suppose they belong to a farmer, but I don’t know why they don’t run away. Are you hungry? Let’s go and see what’s for breakfast.”

  A pan of gray, gloppy porridge bubbled on the stove. Elsie still sat in her chair, but her head lolled back and her eyes were shut.

  “Hello?” Lizzie said.

  Elsie didn’t move.

  “Should we poke her?” Peter whispered. “Is she dead?”

  Lizzie shook her head. “I think she’s asleep.”

  “Doesn’t she sleep in a bed?”

  “Shush! I don’t know.”

  The back door opened, letting in a blast of chilly air. “Morning,” Madge said.

  She laid a gentle hand on Elsie’s shoulder to wake her. She took a comb out of her pocket and tidied her sister’s disheveled hair. “That’s better,” she said, but worried furrows scored her forehead.

  She took striped bowls from a pine corner cupboard and dished up the porridge. “After breakfast you two can go out to play. But mind you don’t get into mischief. Lunch is at half past eleven. If you’re not here, you’ll get none.”

  Lizzie rewound her watch and set it to the time shown by a small brass clock on the shelf over the stove. When they’d finished eating, she rinsed their bowls, laced up her shoes, fastened her coat, and followed Peter out into the back lane.

  An immense valley spread out below her in a patchwork of moss and emerald green, and gold. Walls surrounding fields of irregular shapes and sizes snaked across the undulating land. In the center of the valley, a winding ribbon of trees marked the path of a river or a stream. In the distance, a thin purple smear painted the horizon where the moorland began.

  Lizzie felt as if she were standing on top of the world. She had never been able to see so far—never been faced with such a vision of lush greenness. Hull was flat and crowded with streets of houses and shops, hurrying people, and noisy vehicles that belched out smelly fumes. Lizzie closed her eyes and breathed in the fresh air, savoring the earthy country smells. The only sounds were those of birds and the occasional bleating of a sheep. When she opened her eyes again, a man working in a nearby garden straightened his back and gave them a cheery wave.

  Peter waved back, then bolted toward a field at the end of the lane. “Look, Lizzie! Cows!”

  Lizzie peeked through the bars of a gate. A huge black-and-white cow stared back at her, its lower jaw moving from side to side. Strings of mucus dangled from its nostrils. It swished buzzing black flies away with its tail. She watched the cow, mesmerized by its chewing, but Peter wandered off up a nearby rutted track.

  Lizzie followed him, scattering several browsing sheep. The track ended at a wide metal gate leading into the farmyard that she had seen from the bedroom window. Blood-red geraniums stood guard in pots by the farmhouse door. Fat golden-brown hens pecked at the ground. A duck splashed in an oblong stone trough.

  A woman wearing olive-green Wellington boots, a skirt, and a blue knitted cardigan stepped out of a side door. Samuel Rosen followed her. Lizzie recognized the kind woman she’d seen in the school gymnasium.

  The woman waved at them. “You must be two of the evacuees. Come on in,” she called. “But mind you shut the gate, or the sheep will get in my garden.”

  Peter unhooked the loop of rope that held the gate closed and ran into the farmyard. Lizzie fastened the gate behind her.

  “Are these friends of yours, Sam?” the woman asked Samuel.

  He shook his head and looked at his feet.

  Even though he’d arrived at Lizzie’s school nearly a year ago, Samuel Rosen still didn’t seem to have any friends, not even among the other Jewish children.

  “I’m Hetty Baines,” the woman said. “What are your names?”

  “Lizzie and Peter Dewhurst,” Lizzie answered.

  “Where are you staying?” Hetty Baines asked.

  Lizzie pointed toward the row of houses. “Down there with a lady called Elsie.”

  A brief look of concern crossed the woman’s face, but then she smiled brightly and said, “Well, Lizzie and Peter, you’re welcome to come and visit us whenever you want, as long as you remember to shut the gate.”

  She handed Samuel a bucket. “Why don’t you go on over to the hen house? I’ll show you how to collect the eggs in a minute.” She pointed toward a small wooden shed.

  Samuel turned his back on them and walked away.

  Hetty Baines leaned toward Lizzie and Peter and spoke in an exaggerated whisper. “I suppose you already know he’s a refugee. His teacher told me he’s had a rough time. The Nazis arrested his father and burned his home so his mother sent him away. Came on a train and a boat from Germany all by himself, he did. Poor thing’s only got one photograph of his family. No wonder he doesn’t say much.” She shook her head and hurried to catch up with Samuel.

  “What’s a refugee?” Peter asked.

  “Someone who’s been forced to leave his home,” Lizzie said.

  She and Peter had been forced to leave their home. In a way they were refugees like Samuel, except that they had a home they could return to one day and he didn’t.

  Peter ran to the gate and stood on the bottom bar. He pointed at a field. “Lizzie, come and see. There’s a horse over there.”

  Lizzie trailed after him as he explored the farm, showing her a clump of sheep’s fleece he’d pulled from a prickly thistle. He twisted the long greasy fibers into a thread before tossing them aside. “I’m hungry. Is it lunchtime yet?”

  Lizzie’s watch showed a quarter past eleven.

  “Yes,” she said, without enthusiasm.

  It was Elsie, not Madge, who handed each of them a thick slice of crumbly bread smeared with a thin layer of dripping. But then she sank down into her chair as if the effort had exhausted her.

  “Are you feeling poorly?” Peter asked.

  Elsie didn’t answer.

  “Is there a postbox here?” Lizzie asked. “I’ve written letters for my mother and grandmother, and I’d like to send them.”

  “Village.” It was more a breath than a word. Then Elsie scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to Lizzie before leaning back and closing her eyes.

  Lizzie looked at the address; it would tell her mother where to find them. She slipped the paper scrap into the envelope with her letter and stuck on one of Nana’s stamps. All she had to do now was find the postbox and then wait for her mother to come.

  Chapter Six

  ELIJ
AH

  ELIJAH WHISTLED as he approached the horses tethered in the lane. The Gypsy cobs lifted their heads and nickered their greetings. Running his hands over Lady’s withers, he evaluated her sturdy strength and beautiful white patches. If he sold her at Blakey Fair, he’d get a good price.

  The fair was the highlight of the year. They’d park the wagons on Fair Hill and meet up with aunts, uncles, and cousins who’d been traveling in other counties for most of the summer. The streets would be crammed with horses and haggling men, and although horse trading was the main business, there’d be feasts, storytelling, music, and step dancing, too.

  But this year the fair would be spoiled because Dad wouldn’t be there, and because Elijah planned to sell Lady. Lady had been his since the day he’d helped Dad birth her. He and Lady had traveled the roads and slept beneath the stars together. Whenever Elijah hitched her to the wagon, brushed her thick mane, or sneaked her an apple, he thought of Dad. How could Elijah sell her, their best horse? How could he give the handshake and watch another man walk away with their chestnut beauty? What would Dad say when he found out?

  Elijah remembered when Dad went off to join the army, so proud to be doing his duty. “I’ve got to do my bit, Elijah, just like everyone else. Look after yer mam and yer sisters while I’m gone. I’ll be back as soon as we’ve sorted them Nazis out.”

  He wouldn’t let them come to the station to wave him off. “I want to remember you in camp with the horses,” he’d said.

  So they’d all stood at the gate and watched him go. He’d turned at the end of the lane and waved. Since then they hadn’t heard from him and didn’t even know where he’d been sent.

  Elijah was the man of the family now. And if he didn’t sell Lady, they’d have to take more of Bill’s handouts.

  Lady nudged his hand. He laid his face against her cheek and stroked her velvet nose. “I’m sorry, lass. I have to do it.”

  “Daydreaming again?” Bill’s voice interrupted Elijah’s thoughts.