‘I’m not a Londoner,’ she said. ‘You’re describing the monopoly board, but I don’t know where those places are.’
Bunny squirmed. It seemed he was determined not to be the strict headmaster. Not quite his modus operandi. More the kindly uncle.
‘Call it a quarter-of-a-mile radius,’ he said. ‘Nothing worth seeing beyond that anyway.’
‘Expenses?’ she asked.
‘We’ve set you up with an account. Don’t go wild, it all goes through my budget and there’s hell to pay if we have to explain to the PM why our people are having champagne sent to their rooms.’
‘Anyone you want me to keep an eye on? While you’re keeping an eye on me?’
‘Keep your eyes and ears open. The more you can prove your worth, the quicker this whole thing is apt to go.’
Bunny caught the eye of the man on the desk, who passed him a room key. Bunny, in turn, handed it to Margaret.
‘Try and keep out of trouble,’ he said.
‘I always do.’
31
One week later
Saturday, 14 September 1940
The telegram came at six. Just after tea. A few minutes earlier and the delivery boy could have had a slice of bread and margarine.
Bess had wanted an evacuee as soon as she’d heard about the scheme. Heaven knows she wasn’t getting any younger. Seemed like only yesterday she’d been holding her own newborn baby in her arms, a boy furious with the world from day one. The first wave, back in ’39, John had put his foot down, said he couldn’t have a young child running around the place. So she’d given up on the idea, even if she hadn’t agreed with him. Hadn’t donehimany harm growing up on a farm. One of those city boys, they’d love the chance.
John and Frankie, the lad, had taken a while to get used to each other. Frankie hadn’t taken to farming life at first, confounding all of them. You’d have thought every boy’s dream was to be allowed free rein over the woods and the fields. But something about the open spaces had bothered the boy. It had been Margaret who’d finally brought him out of himself, the same way she’d brought John back to life, after all he’d been through.
But Margaret was gone.
Bess took the telegram, thanking the boy and sending him away with a farthing for his trouble and an egg for his mother. She stood by the sink, where she could see out over the nearest field. John and the children were playing a game. French cricket.
Nob watched her from his armchair by the fireplace. When she finished reading she couldn’t look him in the eye, had to wipe her face.
*
Cook was bowling. Elizabeth stood in the middle, the cricket bat held defensively in front of her legs. He gave her an easy one and she went for it, almost knocked the leather off. Frankie chased the ball through the long grass, running into the setting sun like his life depended on it.
Cook watched Mum walking from the farmhouse. A heavy tread. She had a piece of paper in her hand. Cook would have wagered that paper was trouble.
Frankie was running in from the outfield, stopping halfway to throw the ball. A decent throw. The ball smacked into Cook’s hand. He lifted it to his face, smelt it. Something good, and pure. The smell of the grass, the leather, a hint of linseed oil from the bat. The sound of swifts wheeling above.
He read the telegram. Looked at Mum, and then at the boy.
‘I’ll tell him,’ he said. ‘Later.’
No need to interrupt the game. If Cook could go back to his own childhood, spend another few hours out in the fields, as the sky darkened. He’d give a lot for that. The older he got, the more he believed it.
The news could wait.
*
Bill Taylor, Cook’s farm manager, said his goodbyes, setting off on his walk home in the perfect evening. Elizabeth ran upstairs, getting ready for bed. Good to see her playing. Taking part. She was only a couple of years older than Frankie, but life had aged her too quickly.
‘Frankie,’ Cook shouted, calling the boy in from the farmyard. ‘Cup of tea for you.’
