‘No,’ said Roddy, ‘you did the right thing having us all here. Heaven only knows what he might have said or done to you otherwise. You saw how he meant to strike Hope.’
‘Well I for one think it’s time to make that toast now,’ said Kit, also now sitting down again. ‘To truth and honesty!’
Romily shook her head. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘To Jack. To Jack for bringing us together.’
‘To Jack,’ they echoed.
Part Two
The War
‘We have a clear conscience, we have done all that any country could do to establish peace.’
Neville Chamberlain in his Declaration Of War transcript 11.15 a.m. 3rd September, 1939.
Chapter Thirty-Four
3rd September, 1939
This was it then, the waiting was over: they were at war now. No more talk. No more shilly-shallying. No more misplaced hope that Hitler would do the decent thing and climb down. But then really, the moment Germany had invaded Poland two days ago on the 1st September, all doubt had been removed, with Britain duty-bound to honour the treaty to support Poland. It had been all anyone could talk about.
Now, as Neville Chamberlain’s address to the nation drew to a close and Mrs Partridge rose stiffly from her chair and switched off the wireless, Florence felt a mixture of emotions – relief that the thing was finally settled, but also a churning sickness in her stomach that Billy would now have to do his duty and maybe never come back to her. And as never before, the words of the fortune-teller echoed loudly in her head: You’ll find love and you’ll lose love.
‘Well that’s that then,’ said Mrs Partridge with finality. ‘Now we know what’s what and we can get on with showing that ruddy Hitler what we’re made of. Just who does he think he is!’ She spoke as if she would like nothing better than to box Hitler’s ears. Given half the chance, she probably would! Putting her apron back on – she had removed it as a mark of respect for the Prime Minister’s announcement – she resumed what she’d been doing, weighing out the ingredients for an apple and blackberry pie.
‘I suppose this means we’ll have to start carrying our gas masks around with us like those pamphlets say,’ said Florence, getting on with peeling potatoes at the sink. War or no war, there was still Sunday lunch to prepare.
Mrs Partridge snorted. ‘Much good they’ll do us! A waste of paper all those pamphlets, if you ask me. Still, they’ll come in handy for helping to light the fires when the weather turns.’
As Mrs Partridge continued with her grumbling, Florence wondered if Billy had heard the news. Probably not; more likely he was at the Salvation Army hall with his parents. Poor Ruby Minton, how on earth would she cope with letting her precious son go off and fight? For that matter, how had she taken the news when yesterday Billy and Elijah and all the other lads from the village had taken the bus to Bury St Edmunds to enlist? Florence had hoped Billy might call in to see her afterwards to let her know what he’d been told, her hope being, God forgive her, that he might have been declared unfit for duty.
‘Open that window, will you, Florence? I’m sweating like a pig in a glasshouse! It’s fair sweltering in here.’
‘It’s already open, Mrs Partridge,’ Florence said. ‘Shall I open the back door and see if that will set up a through-draught for you?’
Fanning herself, Mrs Partridge nodded. ‘If you would, otherwise I’ll melt to nothing but a puddle on the floor.’
Florence went through to the scullery and down the few steps to the back door. When she opened it, she started. There on the step was Stanley Nettles, their evacuee, sobbing his little heart out. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ she asked him.
Lady Fogg had delivered the poor lad to them in person the very day Germany invaded Poland. A pale, sickly boy with bony legs and arms and a disagreeable smell about him, he had cowered beside the terrifying woman looking like he’d make a run for it any minute. Although the stick-thin legs poking out from his dirty shorts hadn’t given the impression they would carry him far. Without further explanation, other than to give his name and age – he was nine years old – and that he was from Bethnal Green, Lady Fogg had handed over the bewildered boy as if he were nothing more than a parcel delivery. He’d even had a luggage label pinned to his ragged old jersey. His belongings, such as they were, had been put in a pillowcase, which he’d held tightly against his chest. He’d made a sorry sight indeed.
With both Miss Romily and Kit in London that day, and Allegra out walking with Hope and Annelise, it had fallen to Florence to take the boy in. She had led him through to the kitchen, where Mrs Partridge had been enjoying her customary late-afternoon nap in her favourite chair. Florence had put a finger to her lips indicating to the boy that he keep quiet, and poured him a glass of lemonade. He’d drunk it thirstily in one long gulp, only then to be thoroughly sick all over the floor. The noise had woken Mrs Partridge with a jolt. ‘Lord have mercy, whatever is going on here!’ she’d exclaimed. Whereupon the boy had burst into uncontrollable sobs and thrown himself under the kitchen table as though he were a dog about to be severely punished.
Florence’s heart had gone out to him; she had recognised the fear of his reaction all too well. Later, when she’d prepared a bath for him, adding a generous dose of disinfectant to get rid of the lice he’d brought with him, she’d caught a glimpse of the bruises and sores on his back and shoulders.
She had been all for burning his filthy threadbare clothes, including his underwear, which he’d been sewn into, but that evening, when Miss Romily returned from London with Kit, it was agreed that it would be better to wash and mend the rags as best they could to give the boy a degree of familiarity, in the hope it would make him feel more at home.
But now, as he sniffed and smeared the tears across his pale face with his skinny bare arm, Stanley looked anything but at home. Florence sat down on the step beside him. From her apron pocket she pulled out a handkerchief and tried to wipe his face, but he jerked away. She gently placed the handkerchief into one of his hands. ‘So what’s all this about then?’ she asked. ‘What’s upset you?’
He pursed his lips and shook his head.
‘Have you hurt yourself?’ she asked.
He shook his head again.
‘Do you feel unwell?’
Another shake of his head.
