by Terry Deary
‘You have a lot of goodness in Wales then, don’t you?’ Brigit said sweetly.
‘God’s own country is indeed blessed.’ He nodded. ‘Now eat up. Build your strength for your day at school. Sing your hearts out in the school assembly.’
‘They sing in Welsh,’ Jean said. ‘We don’t understand it.’
‘All the more reason for you to work hard at your Welsh lessons,’ he said.
The girls ate in silence. The old cook brought bacon, sausage and eggs on fried bread from the kitchen and placed it in front of the Reverend. The girls ate toast. ‘This food is on ration,’ he explained as egg yolk ran down his chin. ‘That means everyone is only allowed so much food each week. It will be hard, but we must all suffer a little if we are going to win the war.’
‘Some of us suffer more than others,’ Brigit said looking from her toast to the man’s greasy plate. ‘Where is our bacon and egg?’
‘Adults need more food than children,’ the man said as he forked half a sausage between his twisted teeth. He sighed. ‘I remember the days when we used to have tomatoes with my breakfast. No tomatoes at the village shop, Mrs Davies?’
‘None left yesterday, sir.’
‘Maybe get there earlier today. Get to the front of the queue. Tell Mr Jones Shop who it’s for.’
‘I tried that yesterday,’ she muttered.
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said he had no tomatoes, and if Jesus himself walked into the shop he’d still have no tomatoes. Not unless Jesus turned the old potatoes into tomatoes the way he turned the water into wine.’
The Reverend’s face went dark. ‘I shall have to have a word with Mr Jones Shop,’ he snapped. ‘Now, girls, clean your teeth and get off to school.’
They rose from the table, gathered their letters and went to fetch the paper carrier bags they used to carry their schoolbooks, pencils and pens.
The drizzle wet Brigit’s hair and ran down the back of her neck. They hung up their coats in the cloakroom but were called into the assembly hall before they had a chance to read their letters.
After a small lunch of greasy lamb stew with lumpy mashed potato and tasteless cabbage they found they had five minutes to themselves. Brigit opened her letter and read eagerly. The flap opened easily – as if someone had already steamed it open and read it. She had known for a while that the Reverend Williams liked to stick his pointed nose into her letters.
Her mother had written every week since September. But this letter was a puzzle.
Brigit knew her mother’s writing well and she always told her daughter to write small but neatly so she didn’t waste any paper. Aimee Furst had written on schoolbook paper with faint lines. But she wrote on a line then left a blank line. She finished a whole page the same way. On the second page she only wrote two lines and left the rest of the page empty. And the message was odd too.
Dearest Brigit,
I hope your evacuation is still a happy and healthy time for you. Keep writing to me at our old address and it will be sent on to me as I travel around Britain. As you know I am training to do war work, but I cannot tell you anything about it. It is top secret and if an enemy spy opens this letter we will have betrayed our countries.
I can tell you that your father is doing fine and hopes to be back at work next month. They are treating him well.
I am working with some of the bravest men and women you could ever wish to meet. I am learning new skills – most of them that I cannot tell you about. But there is one that I can share as it is not a great secret and you may find it is fun. On the other hand, you may not be able to buy lemons so you won’t be able to try it.
Brigit scratched her head. This didn’t sound at all like her mother writing. But she carried on reading…
I was told to squeeze some lemon juice into a bowl and add a little water and write with it. You can’t see a word, but when you hold the paper in front of a warm candle it appears like magic. It’s invisible ink. Great fun. You must try it some time.
As you will know from the radio news, France has been invaded. That means my serious work is likely to begin soon and I may be out of touch for a while.
I hope you like this scented paper.
Love,
Maman
Scented paper? As the school bell rang to call the children to their lessons Brigit held the letter to her nose and sniffed. It smelled of lemons. She smiled and knew what her mother wanted her to do.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Blood, toil, tears and sweat’
That night in the cold bed with the rusting iron bedstead, Brigit read a book and waited till Jean fell asleep. It had been an evening of bad temper and argument.
After a supper of fried fish, the Reverend had switched on the radio to listen to the news. ‘Holland has surrendered to the German army,’ he said.
Brigit had heard that and didn’t need him to repeat it as if he were speaking to simpletons. ‘Britain will be next,’ he went on.
‘I think Belgium then France will be next,’ Brigit said. She almost added, ‘My mother’s homeland,’ then remembered she was supposed to be Brigit Hurst from Hodgehill near Castle Bromwich with a father who tested Spitfires.
Reverend Williams looked annoyed. ‘Yes, yes, but they are as good as gone already. The British army is being driven back to the sea and then there will be nothing to stop Herr Hitler from invading.’
‘The radio said there was a new army being formed to defend Britain. The Local Defence Volunteers,’ Jean added. ‘They’ll stop the Germans.’
The man sighed. ‘A Home Guard. Made up of all the sweepings of old folks’ homes and schools – the ones too old or too young to fight properly. No, let us put our faith in God and not the LDV.’
‘Amen,’ Jean said.
Brigit was cross at the man’s defeatist words. ‘Mr Churchill’s our prime minister now. He says we won’t be giving up.’ She picked up the paper. ‘Haven’t you read what he said yesterday?’ Brigit began to read. ‘We are in one of the greatest battles in history. The air battle goes on…’
‘Your dad flying Spitfires.’ Jean nodded.
‘Many preparations have to be made here at home,’ Brigit went on reading.
‘The Home Guard,’ Jean said to the Reverend Williams, as if he were the simpleton now.
Brigit raised her voice till she sounded like a young Churchill. The cook came to listen from the kitchen. ‘I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering. You ask, what is our policy? I will say: It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us.’
‘Amen,’ Jean and the cook cried together.
Brigit’s voice grew stronger. ‘To wage war against a monstrous tyranny. That is our policy. You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: Victory. Victory at all costs – Victory in spite of all terror – Victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory there is no survival.’
Brigit waved the newspaper towards the Reverend as Jean and Cook cheered. ‘My God will be with me,’ the old woman cried.
‘Then I hope he’s wearing a bulletproof jacket,’ the Reverend snarled. He rose to his feet and slammed a fist on the table. ‘The Germans cannot be stopped. When they march down the main street of Aberpont I shall meet them and make our peace. Now get to bed, you girls, and let me hear no more nonsense about Home Guards or Churchill or stopping the invasion. As God is my witness, it cannot be done. Get to bed. And you, Alice,’ he finished pointing to the cook, ‘get back to your kitchen and serve me my treacle pudding.’
The girls went to bed as hungry as ever. Now Brigit pulled the candle towards her and held her mother’s letter close enough to the flame to let it warm the lemon ink. The words began to appear, and Brigit read what Aimee really wanted to say.
Please burn this once you have read it. What I say is secret. Top secret.
When
Major Ellis told me that he had a special task for me he was not able to tell me much about what it was. That was the first part of the four-part training. First, we were tested to see if we were the right sort of person they needed – but they didn’t tell us what we were needed for. Some dropped out, but I went on to a Group A school in Scotland. There we were taught fighting skills – using weapons like guns and knives. We learned something called judo – how to fight without weapons no matter how big your enemy might be. We learned how to make and plant bombs. Then it was down to Manchester to learn how to parachute. You would laugh because we dropped with a small spade fastened to a leg. Can you guess why? It’s so we can bury the parachute after we land. We went on to the New Forest in the south where they taught us about working a radio to send signals in code. There doesn’t seem to be any end to what we need to know. Map-reading and using a compass and simply staying alive in the wild. You have told me about the Reverend Williams. He’d be shocked if he knew we were taught how to pick locks and become burglars.
You know Major Ellis told you that this was Mr Churchill’s idea. He wants to create his Special Operations Executive or SOE. But what that really means is spies and saboteurs – wreckers. I have passed all the tests and that is why I am writing to you. As soon as Mr Churchill decides the time is right, I will be flown across there, dropped by parachute and set about my work. I’ll be dropped near Bray-on-Somme near where Grand-maman lives because I know the area so well.
Major Ellis has kept his promise and has arranged for me to see you before I go. I have one last piece of training to finish. It is working with miniature submarines at a camp near Fishguard Bay in Pembrokeshire. The bus will stop so that I can visit you as I travel through Wales at the end of May.
Take care of yourself, my love, and don’t let that preacher make your life miserable. The war can’t go on forever. We shall all be together one day. Stay strong.
Love,
Maman
Brigit choked back tears. Then she shook her head. ‘Stop being a baby,’ she muttered to herself. ‘You know what you have to do? Yes. Then start planning. Start planning right now.’
Her plan was almost complete when she drifted into a deep sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Maybe he doesn’t wear socks’
Tuesday, 28 May 1940: Aberpont, Wales
Two weeks later, Brigit was ready to put her plan into action.
On the day, the girls were up with the dawn. Reverend Williams said they had to keep their room spotless. ‘As the great Methodist preacher John Wesley said in one of his sermons: “Slovenliness is no part of religion. Cleanliness is indeed next to Godliness.” So you will clean your room before you leave it every morning. And then you can clean the dining room so I don’t have to eat breakfast in the mouse-filth that the wicked creatures leave every night.’
Brigit cleaned the room eagerly, knowing her plan was settled. Jean was slow as ever. ‘If Reverend Williams is so clean then why doesn’t he change his socks?’ she asked.
‘Maybe he doesn’t wear socks,’ Brigit said in mock amazement. ‘Maybe he just has grey ankles because he doesn’t wash his feet.’ The girls giggled, picked up their school bags and gas masks and hurried downstairs to sweep the mouse-droppings off the table then gather them from the floor.
Alice the cook placed porridge on the table for them then went back into the kitchen to fry the Reverend’s breakfast. He appeared just as the servant placed his bacon, sausages, egg and fried bread on the table. The porridge cooled as they waited for him to bless their food. ‘Tea?’ he demanded.
‘Just brewing in the pot, your reverence,’ the old woman replied.
‘Still no tomatoes, I see?’ he sniffed.
‘Sorry, sir. I told Mr Jones Shop you’d say an extra prayer for him, but he said he had none. I even offered to pay him, but he still had none.’
‘That man gets no prayers from me,’ the Reverend said, his face turning purple with anger. ‘Or at least I will pray that his miserable soul goes straight to Hell and roasts on the Devil’s hobs.’
‘Can you roast a soul then?’ Brigit asked quietly.
The Reverend glared at her. ‘You will find out one day,’ he hissed.
‘Won’t you find out first?’ she asked politely. ‘I mean, you’ll probably die before me.’
‘That may well be, but I will not be going straight to Hell,’ he roared. ‘I am not a sinner.’
‘Wrath is one of the seven deadly sins, my teacher says,’ Brigit said. ‘What does wrath mean?’
‘It means anger,’ the Reverend raged, spitting crumbs of crisped bacon on to the table the girls had just polished. For a moment Brigit thought he was going to hit her. Instead he took a deep breath and said in a low voice, ‘And it is lucky for you that I do not suffer from the sin of wrath.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Brigit said with a sigh. Jean had begun to eat her watery porridge. ‘Have we any sugar for the porridge, Reverend?’ she asked. ‘We always had sugar at home.’
The man looked at the sugar bowl on the table and placed two heaped spoonfuls in his teacup. ‘Sugar is on ration,’ he said calmly. ‘There is scarcely enough for my tea. Our brave sailors must cross the Atlantic Ocean and risk being sunk by German submarines, just so we can have our sugar. You must learn to do without it. Every spoonful is probably a sailor’s life saved.’
‘My teacher said that another sin is gluttony, is that right?’
The man slammed his knife and fork on the table and his face was a deeper purple and his eyes bloodshot. ‘Enough, child. Enough of your impertinence.’ He raised his hand above his head and this time Brigit was sure he was going to strike her.
They were interrupted by a rattle at the front door. ‘That’ll be the post,’ Alice said, shuffling from the kitchen.
‘Then get it,’ the Reverend snapped. He was breathing heavily and he snatched the letters from the servant when she returned.
He tore open the first envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. It was blank. He stared at it for a moment then turned over the envelope. ‘It’s for you,’ he said, throwing it on the table. ‘Someone’s idea of a joke,’ he mumbled, but Brigit’s heart leaped.
He looked more carefully at the second envelope. ‘For you, Jean, dear child,’ he said.
Jean beamed. ‘I’ll wait till I get to school to open it,’ she promised.
But the Reverend Williams wasn’t listening. He was frowning over the brown envelope in his hand. He turned it over and looked at his name and address, then at the back. Brigit noticed it was printed with the words ‘On His Majesty’s Service’.
‘What does the king want with me?’ he said, puzzled but pleased and self-important.
He tore open the top and pulled out a couple of pages of typed notepaper. His smug smile turned to a frown and then his face clouded with anger. He raised his eyes to Brigit but spoke to Jean. ‘Get to school, Jean. I need to have a word with Brigit.’
Jean scooped the last of the porridge into her mouth before taking her plate to the kitchen. She gathered up her school bag and gas mask then scuttled out of the door like one of the midnight mice.
The Reverend cleaned his plate and mopped up the grease with a piece of fresh white bread. Then he wiped his mouth against his sleeve and sat back in his chair. ‘Follow me into my study,’ he ordered and led the way into his private room. It was lined with books and smelled of tobacco and leather. He closed the door behind Brigit, turned the key in the lock and put it in his pocket.
The Reverend sat at his desk and pointed for Brigit to take the chair at the other side. He was trying to look stern, but Brigit could see he was going to enjoy whatever came next.
‘Brigit,’ he said finally.
‘That’s my name,’ she agreed carefully.
‘Brigit what?’
‘Brigit Watt? No, Brigit Hurst.’
Reverend Williams gave a tight smile at her small joke then leaned forward. His breath smelled like bacon and
acid. He looked at the letter again and began to read.
‘Dear Reverend Williams,
I work for the government department that deals with evacuees. I understand you are the leader of the villagers hosting Birmingham children in Aberpont.
You were sent children from Hodgehill School, south of the River Tame. However, we believe there has been a mistake and that one of the children who arrived at Aberpont is in fact from the nearby Castle Bromwich School. We do not know if this was accidental or if it was planned.
I think you must not know about this mistake or you would have been in touch with us before now.’
The Reverend licked his lips and looked at Brigit who felt herself turning pale. He read on.
‘The name of the child is Brigit Furst.’
And Brigit was sure she was going to faint.
Chapter Fifteen
‘It’s enough to make a saint swear’
The Reverend Williams raised his eyebrows and waited for Brigit to speak. Her throat was desert-dry and her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth. He carried on.
‘In such cases we would leave the child where he or she is settled. However, Brigit Furst is half-German and her father is at present detained in an internment camp. Brigit Furst is probably not a risk to the security of Britain. We must nevertheless keep her under close observation where she, and the country, will be safe.
A copy of this letter will be sent to the local constable. Please keep the girl in a secure place until he is able to detain her and return her to Castle Bromwich where the staff of her school will care for her since we have been unable to trace her mother.
Yours sincerely,
Edgar Bottomley – Evacuee Services.’
Reverend Williams put down the letter and tapped it with his thin and dirty finger. ‘Your name is Brigit Hurst? Liar. Your father is a brave Spitfire test pilot? Liar. You are a pupil at Hodgehill School? Liar. We have already talked about what happens to liars when they die, haven’t we? I spoke about it in my sermon in the chapel just the other Sunday. They go straight to Hell. There will be no Judgement Day for them, for they have already been found guilty.’