‘Will you stay long?’ Mum asked Ruby. She’d been desperate to ask, for her own sake as much as for Frankie. Visions of a young woman to brighten the house, help keep Frankie out of trouble. Someone Elizabeth, their other evacuee, could look up to.
‘I’ll go back tomorrow,’ Ruby said, between mouthfuls of food. Mum put another couple of sausages into the pan. The girl wanted feeding.
‘Can’t let Hitler drive us all away,’ Ruby continued. ‘Those boys’ll be working the docks day and night, working up a thirst. Me and Mum’ll be there to give them a pint.’
‘Cook said you’ve got a chap,’ Mum said.
Ruby nodded. ‘He took the amnesty. Gone back in. Up north for training but he reckons he’ll get leave soon.’
The army had a new policy. A blind eye to the thousands of men who’d given themselves unofficial leave after Dunkirk. An act of expediency – they needed the men. Besides, it would have been a bad look to prosecute, and execute if the letter of the law was followed, so many of Britain’s returning heroes.
The music programme on the wireless finished, and they heard Big Ben chiming six.
‘This is the BBC,’ the newsreader announced sombrely. ‘In the early hours of this morning, Buckingham Palace was hit by two bombs. The King and Queen are safe, and in good spirits. A palace spokesman observed that nobody is safe from the terror raids sent by Hitler. Today, the King and Queen visited other parts of London hit by German bombs.We’re all in it togetherwas the message from the cheering crowds.’
Cook looked at Margaret, a question on the tip of his tongue. She smiled.
There was just enough light in the sky for a walk across the fields, the nights drawing in, Frankie keen to show Ruby everything. The rabbit warren at the far end of Dadswell’s Flat, the glade in the woods, the cricket pitch he’d marked out behind the barn.
Cook took Margaret’s hand.
‘How long can you stay?’ he asked.
‘How long will you have me?’
Cook didn’t answer. Easier to walk in silence.
A swarm of bombers appeared on the horizon, over the Downs. Specks in the dark sky.
‘Looks like London’s in for it again,’ she said.
‘Margaret,’ Cook said. ‘I need to ask you a question.’
She kissed him, and he slipped his arms around her. She looked up at him, vulnerable. Someone he could protect. Someone he could keep safe from all that was coming. To live in peace, to work the land, until the day came that peace was no longer an option.
‘It’s complicated,’ she said, kissing him as the bombers rumbled overhead, and a distant siren wailed into life.
She looked him in the eye, her hand on his as it cupped her face.
‘But then, the things worth fighting for usually are.’
110
All of Hendon was tucked up for the evening, blackout curtains drawn, milk bottles out, cats brought in. The first chilly evening, a reassuring feeling – the last remnant of the Indian summer now just a memory, and winter not far ahead. In Swynford Grove, only Mr Forshaw was still out, the rattle of his push mower a rhythmic sound, his rightly admired lawn getting one last cut before the first frost. He liked to mow in the evening. Said it got a better cut. He’d leave the clippings on the grass as a mulch.
The two fruit trees at number forty-four had been picked. Those apples that hadn’t gone immediately into a pie or crumble had been individually wrapped in sheets of newspaper, and laid carefully in wooden trays, no apple touching another. Some would emerge from their wrappings with a spot of mould, but most would last throughout the winter.
Mrs Pearson stirred custard powder into a half-and-half mixture of water and milk. It wasn’t the same as real, but everyone was doing their bit, and powdered was a lot better than nothing. Her daughter Charlotte sat at the table, waiting. Father would be home late again, the Ministry keeping him longer and longer as things got worse. Mrs Pearson reflected on how quickly things had, indeed, got worse.
‘It’s time I did my bit,’ Charlotte said, pouring tea for them both from the heavy earthenware pot in its knitted cosy. ‘I’m thinking of signing up as a Land Girl.’
Mrs Pearson snorted. Her daughter on her way to a double first from Cambridge – mucking out pigs? Really, the things the young people came out with nowadays.
‘I suppose you could give it a try,’ she said, thinking of early mornings, heavy work, filth everywhere. She’d give it a week then she’d be back.
‘Sussex sounds nice,’ Charlotte said.
Which explained the farming.
