by Lesley Parr
For Mammy
CONTENTS
Chapter One: A Different Type of Countryside
Chapter Two: Scared City Rabbits
Chapter Three: 21 Heol Mabon
Chapter Four: A Brick Outhouse
Chapter Five: A Lad Called Iron
Chapter Six: Mr Thomas
Chapter Seven: Snap
Chapter Eight: The Foxhole
Chapter Nine: Falling
Chapter Ten: Cow Soup
Chapter Eleven: Welsh Boys and Old Fellas
Chapter Twelve: D. Hughes Ltd
Chapter Thirteen: Trapped
Chapter Fourteen: A Great Right Hook
Chapter Fifteen: The Welcome Party
Chapter Sixteen: Skulls And Skelingtons
Chapter Seventeen: Bacon And Oats
Chapter Eighteen: Fugitives
Chapter Nineteen: Secrets
Chapter Twenty: Bones
Chapter Twenty-One: Half A Sandwich
Chapter Twenty-Two: Bone Science
Chapter Twenty-Three: Dark Days
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Search Party
Chapter Twenty-Five: A Good Look Over the Valley
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Bunker
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Tricks
Chapter Twenty-Eight: It’s Got to be Jack
Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Proper Egg
Chapter Thirty: Nye
Chapter Thirty-One: Small Spaces
Chapter Thirty-Two: Pulling Together
Chapter Thirty-Three: Rat Catching
Chapter Thirty-Four: Alun Thomas’s Boy
Chapter Thirty-Five: A Thought
Chapter Thirty-Six: There Were Bones
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Yellow Flowers
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Three in a Row
Acknowledgements
Q&A With The Author
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
A DIFFERENT TYPE OF COUNTRYSIDE
There isn’t as much sky as I thought there’d be. And what I can see is clear and blue, not the never-ending rain clouds we were told we’d get in Wales.
The guard blows his whistle and the train hoots back. I watch it pull away and my heart squeezes a bit. I want to get back on. I don’t know why; it’s not as if it’s going back to London.
We’ve been through three stations today – from Paddington to Cardiff Central to here. This one’s tiny, with only one platform. It’s like our lives are shrinking. I straighten Ronnie’s tag and we join the back of the line.
Dad said we’d be able to see for miles and miles in the countryside. He got us some library books with pictures of fields and hedgerows with little houses dotted around. But this isn’t like that.
Massive, looming bulges of land – mountains, I suppose – have stolen most of the sky. I turn on the spot. They’re all around, as though the village was dropped into the middle of a big fat cushion. Before now, the closest thing to a mountain I’d ever seen was a sand dune on Camber Sands. And it wasn’t green. And it didn’t have houses stuck on the side of it.
There’s a tug at my sleeve. Ronnie’s looking at me, eyes wide and teary. I lean down so he can whisper in my ear.
‘This isn’t like the pictures,’ he says, sniffing.
‘I know.’
‘But Dad said—’
‘He didn’t know, did he? He didn’t know we were coming here. He just knew it wasn’t a city.’ I look around again. ‘There must be different types of countryside.’
‘Well, this is the wrong type.’ Ronnie sticks out his bottom lip.
This is all I need – a sulky little brother. No one will pick us if he looks a proper misery guts.
‘Be quiet and try to look like a nice boy,’ I say, making sure the string of his gas mask box sits properly on his shoulder. ‘Nice and smart.’
I look over his head to the far end of the platform. The smoke’s thinning, but it still stings my eyes and catches in my throat. I can see the face of the station clock now; it’s almost teatime. The sign is clear too:
LLANBRYN
Funny word. Too many Ls.
Here we are, a wriggling, squiggling line of schoolchildren. Duff’s at the front with his little sister. She’s even younger than Ronnie; too young to understand any of this. I can’t see many faces; most are looking at our teacher, Miss Goodhew. Some of us seem excited, some curious, but I bet everyone’s nervous. Even the ones pretending not to be. Maybe even Duff.
Ronnie’s crying again. It’s OK for little brothers to cry but big brothers have to be the brave ones. Not that I would cry, anyway. I’m twelve. He watches sadly as a guard puts our suitcases in a pile near the gate at the end of the platform.
‘I want my Dinky van,’ he splutters.
‘You can’t have it. It’s packed. You know what Nan said.’
‘But—’
‘Ronnie, it’s safe,’ I say. ‘Remember how well you wrapped it in your pyjamas? You did a really good job there.’
He nods and blinks back more tears. I know he’s trying to be brave too.
Next to the guard, Miss Goodhew is talking to a man and a woman. The man is tall and has a thick overcoat buttoned over his large stomach, and he’s got the biggest moustache I’ve ever seen. The woman’s all done up like she’s in her Sunday best. She’s walking down the line now, giving out custard creams as she counts us. When she gives one to Lillian Baker, Lillian thanks her for having us in their village. Duff’s close enough to pull her plaits but he doesn’t. He’s not usually worried about getting into trouble; perhaps he is nervous. I bet Lillian Baker will get picked first. She’s got long dark hair and her socks never fall down and all the grown-ups say she’s pretty.
When the woman hands a biscuit to Ronnie, she stops and wipes away his tears with her hanky. She’s got a metal badge pinned to her coat that says WVS Housewives Service Identification.
‘What’s your name?’ she asks. Ronnie gulps and says nothing.
Now that she’s close, I can smell lavender and peppermints. She lifts Ronnie’s tag and says, ‘Ronald, now that’s one of my favourite names, that is.’
‘We call him Ronnie,’ I say, a bit harder than I mean to.
But she keeps on smiling, eyeing my tag. ‘And you’re a Travers too. Ronnie’s brother, is it? So are you a James or a Jimmy?’
‘Jimmy.’
‘All right then,’ she says. She gives me a custard cream and moves back up the line.
‘She smells like Nan,’ Ronnie whispers. His lip’s wobbling again, so I take his hand and give it a squeeze, just like Dad would do.
‘Eat your biscuit,’ I say.
Miss Goodhew claps her hands and calls out to us. We all go quiet.
‘These nice people are Mr and Mrs Bevan,’ she shouts down the platform, using her fake-posh voice. ‘They are here to take us up to the institute.’
I wonder what an institute is. It sounds grim.
‘Welcome to Llanbryn!’ Mr Bevan booms. I’m not surprised he booms. He looks like a boomer.
I glance at the sign again. It doesn’t look like it says what he just said. Ronnie’s copying him, screwing up his face, trying to make his mouth fit around the letters.
‘Lll … clll … cllaaa …’
‘Stop it,’ I whisper. ‘No one will pick us if they think you’re simple.’
‘Don’t worry about your cases,’ Mr Bevan says. ‘We’ve got men taking them up for you.’
Ronnie tightens his grip on my hand and I know he’s thinking about his Dinky van again. Those men – whoever they are – had better be careful with his case. If he loses that van, he won’t stop crying till the end of the war.
We set off, our gas mask boxes bumping a
gainst us. Mrs Bevan and Miss Goodhew chat at the head of the line. Mr Bevan waits as we cross the road outside the station, then joins Ronnie and me at the back.
‘Are you ready for your adventure, boys?’ he asks, grinning.
What’s he talking about? Adventures happen in jungles or on raging rivers or in the Wild West. Not here. Not in Wales with a whimpering little brother and a custard cream.
Ronnie’s stopped crying, so that’s something. He’s twisted the top off his biscuit and is licking the creamy bit.
‘Are we going up there?’ he asks, his eyes darting nervously from Mr Bevan to the mountainside houses.
Mr Bevan nods. ‘We are.’
‘It’s a long way up,’ Ronnie says.
Mr Bevan turns to the houses and tilts his head from side to side. A big grin breaks out on his face, stretching his moustache and making him look like a happy walrus.
‘Not for a big strong boy like you!’
Ronnie beams.
‘Come on then!’ Mr Bevan ruffles Ronnie’s hair. I smooth it down again. No one will pick us if he looks a proper mess. I might not want to be here, but I don’t fancy us being the last ones chosen, either – the dregs in the bottom of a bottle.
We start to climb a wide track. Bushes and trees grow on either side. Ronnie asks if it’s a forest. I catch Mr Bevan’s eye and see his moustache twitch over his smile.
‘Stop asking stupid questions,’ I hiss in Ronnie’s ear.
Then, up ahead, Duff’s little sister drops her custard cream. She stops dead and just stays there until her face turns a greyish shade of blue. I’ve seen her do this lots of times before, when we’ve been out playing, but Mr Bevan looks horrified.
‘What’s she doing?’ he asks.
‘Holding her breath,’ I answer. ‘She can only do it for so long, then she really starts.’
‘Starts what?’
‘Wait for it.’
I don’t know if it’s got anything to do with the mountains curving all round us, but her wails are even louder here, not far off an air-raid siren. The two women rush over to her and Mrs Bevan opens her handbag. She feels around inside, pulls out a chocolate bar and snaps off a piece.
‘Dairy Milk,’ Ronnie groans. ‘I should’ve dropped my biscuit.’
As we move off, Florence Campbell picks up the custard cream and stuffs it in her pocket. I pretend not to see. I don’t think Florence can believe her luck – two biscuits in one day. I bet she’s never had two biscuits in her whole life.
We keep climbing until we reach another road. We follow it round the corner until an enormous brown-brick building comes into view. It’s three storeys high, bulky and strong-looking.
‘I’ll just catch up with Miss Goodhew and my wife at the front,’ Mr Bevan says. ‘You two wait by here.’
‘Jimmy calls her Miss Badhew,’ Ronnie says, ‘because she isn’t nice, so she can’t be a good hew, can she?’
‘Ronnie!’ I mutter.
But Mr Bevan is laughing. ‘Don’t worry, Jimmy. We had nicknames for teachers when I was a boy too.’
He walks away and I can’t believe I haven’t been told off.
‘Here we are,’ he says, standing in the arched doorway. He looks really proud, like he’s showing us Buckingham Palace. ‘The Llanbryn Miners Institute.’
I look from Mr Bevan to the institute. They match, the way some people do with their dogs. There’s something about him that says he belongs here, like he’s a part of this place. But that just makes me feel even more like an outsider.
‘Everyone’s in the main hall. They can’t wait to see you.’
The room is massive, much bigger than our school hall. It’s all dark timber, polished up till it shines. There are steps and a raised platform at the far end, a bit like a stage. The room’s bursting with people all staring and muttering; surely they can’t all want an evacuee? Some must be here to gawp. They sit in rows in front of the platform and, as we walk past them to the raised bit, I can feel the place swallowing us up – my little brother, all the others and me.
CHAPTER TWO
SCARED CITY RABBITS
Mrs Bevan steers all of us evacuees on to the stage, helping the littlest ones up the small steps. Ronnie’s sticky hand slips into mine.
‘Jimmy,’ he whispers, ‘what if no one picks us?’
I look down at him, at his little cowlick fringe and big doe eyes. ‘Don’t be silly. Who wouldn’t want us?’ I don’t tell him I’m terrified that no one will.
It’s so noisy. People are talking, shifting in their seats, coughing. There are a lot more villagers than evacuees. That has to be a good thing, increase our chances. If there are more of them than of us, Ronnie and me can’t be left behind. Some men bring in our cases and Mrs Bevan shows where to put them on the floor in front of us. Mr Bevan steps on to the stage and the hall goes quiet. Ronnie’s gripping my hand so tight it’s starting to hurt but I don’t care. All that matters is that someone wants us.
Mr Bevan clears his throat and says in his booming voice, ‘As president of the Miners Institute and representative of the people of Llanbryn, I’d like to welcome our London visitors.’
He turns and waves an arm towards us as if we’re being revealed in a magic trick. Twenty-six scared city rabbits waiting to be pulled out of a hat.
‘Now, we’ll do our best to get this done as quickly as possible,’ Mr Bevan says, unfolding a sheet of paper. ‘Miss Goodhew and the children have had a very long and tiring journey.’
I watch his eyes travel down the page. Ronnie’s trembling. I drag my hand out of his and put my arm around his shoulder, pulling him close to me. He takes a big, shuddering breath and lets it out into my side. I feel the warmth of it through my jacket.
‘I have the Joneses …’ Mr Bevan says. Quite a few people stand up and Mr Bevan laughs but I don’t get why it’s funny. He carries on, ‘I mean Ralph and Megan … those Joneses.’
I wonder how many Joneses are in this place. All the people, except a young-looking couple on the front row, sit down again.
‘Down for one girl, I see,’ Mr Bevan says.
The woman nods and points at Lillian Baker, who almost does a curtsy before moving along the stage and down the steps.
Lillian Baker first. I knew it.
Someone shuffles behind me; I look around to see Florence Campbell trying to smooth down her hair. It won’t make any difference; there are so many nits it’s practically moving on its own. She sees me looking and pokes out her tongue. I edge forward so no nits can jump on me. Ronnie caught them once and Nan had to rub his head with Lethane oil; he wailed for hours and coughed for weeks. No wonder the nits cleared off.
Duff and his sister go next with a woman whose nose is so far in the air I’m surprised she can see where she’s going. A woman in a huge purple hat says in a loud voice that they are lucky little children. Duff glances back and gives me the thumbs up. I try to smile but it gets stuck halfway and I’m sure I must look properly daft.
Ronnie’s face is still buried in my jacket. I haven’t seen him like this since Mum went.
‘Come on,’ I whisper, ‘it’s like Mr Bevan said, this is an adventure, yeah?’
He sniffs and peers around the hall. Mrs Bevan smiles at him and mouths, ‘Chin up.’ Ronnie sticks his chin into the air and I almost laugh.
The hall’s emptying quite quickly now – some evacuees go happily, some cry. A tall man with a smiley face takes the four Turners together. He and his wife hold their hands as they leave, two children each. Mr Bevan called him Dr Jenkins so I suppose he must have a big house.
About half of us have gone when a round, flushed woman wearing a flowered apron hurries in. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head like she’s laughing at herself.
‘Sorry, sorry!’ she says, coming to the front of the hall. ‘Can I go next, please, Ceri? I’ve had to shut the shop, see.’
My heart beats faster; she’s got a shop. Even if rationing starts, I reckon an evacuee would
do all right with a shopkeeper. Especially if it’s a sweet shop.
‘Come on then, Phyllis,’ says Mr Bevan, checking his list. ‘No preference for a boy or a girl, as long as it’s just the one. Is that correct?’
Just the one. Angry tears prick at my eyes.
The woman gives us all the quick once-over and her gaze settles somewhere behind Ronnie and me.
‘That girl,’ she says gently.
‘The one scratching her head?’ Mr Bevan asks.
Florence! Florence Campbell is being picked before us! Picked before some of the other girls, girls with clean faces and cardies with all the buttons on!
Florence steps off the stage. As she passes, I hear her breath quick and hard. I get a whiff of her smell; like when our old dog used to come in from the rain and dry off by the fire. The woman puts her arm around Florence. I can’t believe it – no one ever touches a Campbell – you get Campbell Germs that never wash off. That’s what Duff says.
Phyllis the shop woman and Florence leave the hall too.
Mr Bevan calls the next name on the list. Mrs Thomas. A fair-haired woman gets up from one of the middle rows, her eyes on Ronnie. Some people whisper and make huffing noises. Mr Bevan glares at them and she nods to him as if to say thank you, then smiles at Ronnie. He giggles.
This is it; we won’t be last.
‘One boy, I believe,’ Mr Bevan says.
One.
I think I might really be sick, properly sick, all over my shoes sick. I just want to go home.
I’m gripping Ronnie’s shoulder so tight I must be hurting him but he’s just watching her. Then the woman called Mrs Thomas looks at me and I get the same smile.
‘I’ve changed my mind, Ceri,’ she says. ‘We can make room for two.’
CHAPTER THREE
21 HEOL MABON
We get off the stage and Mrs Thomas holds out her hand to Ronnie. He reaches for it but I pull him closer. She looks at me and nods her head once and I notice that her eyes are really, really blue.
‘I’ll just take the suitcases then, shall I?’ she says. Her voice is soft and goes up and down.
I say nothing. A few people nudge each other. The woman in the purple hat frowns and shakes her head. Maybe they think Mrs Thomas can’t make room for two?