by Juno Dawson
What an endless and thoroughly testing day. I can scarcely believe today is the same day as when I left Paddington.
I was by far the eldest evacuee on the train and it fell to me to nanny the little ones in my carriage. I had bid farewell to Mother at home and made my own way to the station, hoping to avoid histrionics, but there were more than enough tears and white handkerchiefs on the platform. I was somewhat surprised there were that many children left in London. Perhaps the September campaign was finally enough to convince Londoners that war is truly afoot. Still, it wasn’t quite the crammed cattle truck I had feared.
As we juddered and puffed out of the station, I introduced myself to my new companions. The first was Liddy, a roguish, ruddy-faced girl of eleven from Limehouse, and then two little brothers, John and William Pointer of Shoreditch, angelic until they opened their mouths and pure mudlark poured out.
Anticipating a long, tedious journey, I had brought a pack of cards and taught them Gin Rummy and Knockout Whist to pass the hours. Poor Liddy hadn’t brought any lunch as instructed and so I split my spam roll and gave half to her.
By the time we chugged into the tumbling green valleys of Wales, the mournful sniffles had mercifully subsided and instead the train hummed with anticipation. Being that much older than the others I felt it was important to maintain my composure, just as Mother had in the months since Father went away, although I confess I too was nervous. Like everyone else, I was eager to learn where I would be living and with whom. Obviously I said nothing to the little ones, but rumours had reached London that all manner of horrors greeted some unfortunate evacuees. Some had even fled back to the cities.
As we drew near our destination, I ensured everyone had their cases and their billeting labels were clearly displayed. My own was attached to my collar and I felt faintly ridiculous. ‘Margot Stanford – From Kensington, London, To Cardiff, Wales.’ I was a misplaced trinket, lost and found.
The station was as charred and bustling as Paddington had been. Smoky, dirty chaos clogging my nostrils and catching on my tongue. The irony is that Cardiff had been badly hit of late. In fact, I was supposed to have made the journey a week earlier, but a New Year raid had left much of the city in ruins. Out of the frying pan … and all that. Fortunately, none of us was to be billeted in Cardiff itself – the surrounding rural environs waited. Male voice choirs and sheep, how blessed we are. I do so hope my sarcasm is apparent.
I shepherded the younger ones off the train to greet a billeting officer with a spiteful, puckered mouth like she was sucking on a particularly sour lemon. ‘Line up! Line up!’ she barked at us, quite unnecessarily as everyone lined up most efficiently. By this stage in the war, we all knew it was provident to appear meek and well-mannered for prospective hosts.
I scanned the faces of the women who waited to receive us – most, I imagined, wives of the miners who were now part of the effort. Another billeting officer, a ham-faced, rotund man, joined Mrs Lemonface and they started to match us to our new families. Liddy, to my relief, was quickly packed off (I’d heard girls are preferable to rowdy little boys) with a kindly, maternal-looking woman. ‘Margot Stanford?’ the woman called and I stepped forward. ‘How old are you?’
‘Fourteen’ I told her, lying through my teeth. Too old. Natural, I suppose, that Daddy would want his only daughter out of the city.
‘You able?’
‘And ready, ma’am.’
She eyed me up shrewdly. ‘Go with Maggie Reed to Newport. You’ll do for the factory.’ I had expected as much, and I didn’t mind being put to work. Mother is doing her bit and I will do mine.
I took my case, bid John and William goodbye and followed the billeting officer. Maggie Read wasn’t much older than I, although I saw a ring on her finger. She was pretty, fresh-faced and I immediately decided she was a newlywed, a war bride with no children of her own. ‘So nice to meet you,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much for welcoming me into your home.’
‘Oh, it’s not my home,’ Maggie said with a shy smile and hunched shoulders. Good posture is so important and says so much about a person’s character. ‘It’s Mam’s.’ I do so adore the accent, ‘She’s not been well, so I’m looking after her while my Huw’s away.’ So I was right!
‘In challenging times, we all do as we must. I’m happy to lend a hand in any way I can.’
‘That’s very kind, miss … Mam can’t manage the stairs at the minute, so you’ll have her room all to yourself …’
There was a commotion back on the platform. I turned to see the porcine officer attempting to drag John away from William. The boys clung to each other, howling. I looked on, waiting for one of the teachers to step in and help them. I could only see one and she look utterly exhausted, two weeping girls clutching her skirt. I realised there was no one coming to the Pointers’ aid, their mother hundreds of miles away in east London, their father even further. ‘Excuse me, Maggie. Just one moment.’ I dropped my case and hurried back down the platform. ‘I say, what’s going on here?’
‘It’s no concern of yours, miss.’ The officer’s face was now a most unappealing beetroot shade.
‘I should think it is. I’ve travelled all the way from London with these little boys. Unhand him at once!’
He let go of John, who went and hid behind William. ‘Margot, he’s tryin’ a split us up! I’m goin’ wiv my bruvver!’
I look at the man’s identification. ‘Listen, Mr Ridwell, I understand you have a most trying job, but you can’t separate brothers. That’s simply beastly.’
He sighed impatiently. ‘It’s nothing to do with me, miss. Most houses are full now. We’re squeezing little ’uns in wherever we have space.’
‘Oh, there must be room for them both together somewhere. Look at them! They can’t eat much more than a sparrow between them!’
I stopped. Darkness fell quite out of nowhere. His shadow engulfed the whole platform. I looked up and saw a lumbering giant of a man looming over me, appearing through the spiralling cloud of smog. His face was craggy and I’d optimistically describe his clenched fists as ‘Strangler’s Hands’. I didn’t feel nearly so confident any more.
‘What’s going on here then?’ His booming accent was the thickest I’d ever heard. ‘Where’s my boy?’
I puffed my chest out. ‘Sir, are you hosting John Pointer?’
‘Aye,’ he growled.
My voice was suddenly thin as weak tea. ‘I wonder if you might find it in your heart to take his little brother William also? It seems a shame to divide a family when they’re already so far from their mother.’
The ogre shook his head. ‘No. We already got a full house as it is.’
‘I’m sure they wouldn’t mind sharing a bed. They’re so small.’
Mr Ridwell, with all the authority of a scared vole, turned to the huge man, wiping his sweaty palms on his overcoat. ‘What do you say, Ivor? They could help on the farm?’
Ivor cast a contemptuous look over the boys. ‘You promised me strapping young men, Rhodri. What am I meant to do with them? They couldn’t lift a spade between ’em.’
Maggie hovered anxiously. Rhodri Ridwell fluttered ineffectually. It fell to me to take charge. ‘Farm, you say? I could be of service on a farm if Maggie was happy to take the boys. What do you think?’
Ivor smiled a crooked smile. ‘You? On a farm?’
‘Why not? I’m both willing and able.’
Quite unexpectedly, Ivor grabbed my wrist. I noticed at once he was missing the last two fingers on his right hand, only stumps remaining. Well, that explained why he wasn’t away fighting. ‘Look at these nails,’ he grumbled, inspecting my fingers. ‘Never done an honest day’s work in your life.’ He threw my arm down. ‘I need a farm boy, Rhodri.’
‘Listen!’ I said, perhaps a little more forcefully than I intended. ‘We don’t have much call for farming in West Kensington, but I’m no better with a sewing machine than I am a spade! I’m eager to learn and the strongest here by some margin,
I dare say. Now I don’t know how you treat women in Wales, but in London we’re a vital part of the war effort, which is, Mr Ivor, more than I can say for you.’
The whole platform went horribly silent and I wondered if he might strike me. I’d gone much too far with my impertinence and we all knew it. I held my breath.
Suddenly Mr Ivor let out a mighty, full-throated belly laugh. ‘Oh, Rhodri! I have to take this one to meet my Glynis! Have you ever heard the like? Oh, girly, are you in for a surprise! Big talker, eh? You sure you fancy life on a farm?’
I rolled my shoulders back. ‘I don’t see why not.’ I dearly hoped Glynis was his wife or daughter. I didn’t relish the prospect of being stranded on a farm with him alone.
‘Maggie,’ said Rhodri, ‘are you happy to take the boys?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Mam was very particular … and she’s not been well.’
‘Oh, please, Maggie,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t see them split apart, would you?’ I crouched to be on John and William’s level. ‘Now, boys, if you go with Miss Maggie, do you absolutely promise to be on your best behaviour?’
‘Yes, miss,’ they chorused.
‘And you must do everything you can to help out … do chores to help Miss Maggie?’
They agreed at once and, after a little more pleading on my part, Maggie reluctantly accepted the pair of cockneys. They said their goodbyes and I was left with the hulking farmer. I looked up at him. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Let’s see if you’re still thanking me after a couple of days on the farm.’
He was certainly gravelly, but there wasn’t any nastiness in his words, more bemusement. ‘We shall see,’ I said. ‘I’m Margot Stanford.’ I offered him my hand.
‘Ivor Williams.’ He held out his deformed hand and I shook it heartily.
By the time we arrived at Tan-Y-Pistyll Farm, night was sinking over the valley. What a doomy, desolate place this is: The windswept scenery brought Father Seycombe’s spat sermons about purgatory to mind. The farmhouse and stables were steeped in shadow, a black spider in the corner of the hills.
It was the first time I’ve ridden in a truck – it was quite exciting to be so high up, even if Ivor’s little lorry bumped and jolted along the dirt track to the farm. I came over quite peculiar and was glad when we pulled through the gate.
The farm was bitterly cold, my breath clouding even in the hallway, but it was presented well enough. I sensed a woman’s touch – pink geraniums on the windowsill; some pretty watercolour paintings of the valley – and I was right. A farmer’s wife with auburn hair secured in a loose plait emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked me up and down and smiled. ‘This the new farmhand? He’s prettier than the last one.’
‘Aye,’ Ivor said, gruff as ever.
‘What happened there then?’ she asked. Ivor shrugged his overcoat off and hung it on the stair banister. ‘Oh where are my manners? I’m Glynis. What’s your name, pet?’
‘I’m Margot Stanford. Pleased to meet you. It’s my fault, I’m afraid, Mrs Williams. I volunteered to come here so that two little brothers could stay together.’
Glynis laughed, reaching up on tiptoes to kiss Ivor brazenly on the lips. ‘Give us a cwtch, you big softheart!’
‘Gerroff, woman!’ he barked, but with a suggestion of a smile.
‘I’ll do whatever I can around the farm,’ I told her.
‘Aye, you will. Three extra mouths to feed now. I already put Peter and Jane to bed. It’s not going to be easy, Margot. You should know that right now.’
There was something about this woman I rather liked. Grit in the oyster and all that. ‘It never is, is it?’ I replied.
She chuckled. ‘Come on through. You must be starved. Rabbit stew?’
My stomach rumbled and I was reminded I should be ravenous. The stew was hearty and well-seasoned, served with hunks of warm brown bread. We ate at a well-worn kitchen table, handmade, I was informed, by Ivor. The craftsman himself ate in stony silence, washing down every bite with a glug of local ale, but Glynis was happy to talk. She asked umpteen questions about the Blitz and the state of London. I was surprised to see her supping the same ale and even more so when she offered me some too. I of course declined politely. Ladies do not drink ale.
Out here, the war had existed mostly on the wireless, no more real than a radio play. Having survived the bombardment I felt I spoke with suitable maturity and solemnity, an authority if you like, imparting what I’d heard Mother relay from Father.
‘It must be terrible,’ Glynis said, shaking her head. ‘Weren’t you scared, pet?’
‘There’s an awful minute,’ I told her, ‘after the air-raid siren has stopped but before you leave the shelter, when you just have no idea if your house is still standing. You’re all huddled together in the dark, and everyone’s trying to stay calm and jovial, but you can feel it. It’s there, unsaid, but everyone is thinking the exact same thought: what if we’re the only ones left? Someone opens the door, and you can only hold your breath and hope the world is still there.’
Glynis took Ivor’s hand. ‘Heavens! You poor thing. You’re safe here now.’
‘That you are,’ Ivor said before leaving the table.
I might well be, but what about Mother and Daddy?
Presently, up in the box room I’ve been assigned, I am listening to the silence, if such a thing is possible. Here there are no bombs falling, no air-raid sirens wailing like infernal banshees, no fire engines racing through the wreckage of London. It’s thickly silent, and I suspect that when the candle burns out the darkness will be all-consuming, more so than even the greyness of the so-called blackouts. I promised Mother I would document my life in Wales and so I have begun. Tomorrow is my first day of life on the farm and, as Dorothy herself would say, ‘We’re not in Kansas any more, Toto.’
Chapter 6
Too late I hear footsteps plod down the landing. There’s a light rap on my door and I have just enough time to shove Margot’s diary under my pillow as Mum pokes her head in. ‘Are you all right up here?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine!’ I say, probably looking hugely guilty. One time Marina and I tried a Marlboro Light out of her bedroom window because we thought it’d be very sophisticated, and her mum smelled the smoke. She confronted us and, although we both denied it, I couldn’t stop coughing. I reckon I probably look like Marina did on that occasion.
‘What are you up to?’
I look around the room and see some CDs scattered on the carpet. ‘You know, just listening to music and stuff.’ I once read somewhere that lies are more believable if you make them vague. Only rubbish liars pepper their fibs with fine detail, and it’s a dead giveaway.
‘Fair enough, you OK though? You’re very quiet.’
‘Fine, I promise.’
Mum comes and leans over and kisses my crown. ‘I’m off to bed then. You should get some sleep too – school tomorrow.’
‘I can hardly wait.’
‘Sleep tight.’
‘Don’t let the bedbugs bite,’ I add. She leaves me alone and my first instinct is to read on. I have a million questions about the diary. I look at the clock and see I’ve somehow been reading for about an hour, sucked through a time tunnel to 1941. It’s so strange. My head is like scrambled eggs. I just can’t connect the girl in the book to the woman downstairs at all, and yet the logical part of my brain knows they’re the same.
Margot renamed the farm. Interesting. Tan-Y-Pistyll Farm must be Mari-Morgan Farm, it just has to be – why else would the diary be here? Margot was evacuated here during the war? While my other grandmother, Dad’s mum, is always regaling us with tedious war stories, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard Margot talk about that period in her life. Not once. She looks young for her age so I never really think of her as being old enough to have lived through it.
My mind boggles and I’m desperate to read more, but my eyes are also a little sore from deciphering Margot’s finicky handwriting. M
um interrupted me at a good resting place, I suppose. I give the musty notebook another big sniff, still struggling to figure out how and why the diary is still in the farm’s attic nearly sixty years on.
So far nothing incriminating or in any way blackmailable, but totally fascinating. The weirdest part of all is that, in the diary, I quite like Margot. She’s pretty cool.
So Dewi and I are the only two people on the bus again. There’s no way I can avoid him without being rude. ‘Hiya!’ he says brightly as I wobble down the aisle. From the driver’s death-defying attitude to taking corners, I suspect he may be on day release from somewhere secure.
‘Morning, Dewi.’ I purposely sit opposite him instead of in the row in front. He just shuffles closer. I notice I’ve stood in a thick pink blob of bubblegum and groan.
‘How was your first day?’
I scrape my shoe along the floor, but somehow make it worse. ‘Fine, thanks.’ I hope my clipped responses will cut the conversation short.
Dewi swings his long legs into the aisle. ‘Listen, yeah. Th-the … the problem with sm-small towns is that you can’t fart in the morning without everyone knowing about it by lunchtime.’ I smile at that. ‘I heard that Megan Jones was giving you shit yesterday.’
How is that even possible? We were the only people in the toilet! ‘Oh God, it was nothing really. She just wanted me to know that, well, you were off limits. Not that you were … on limits. Oh … it was nothing.’
‘For crying out loud!’ Dewi rolls his head back. ‘She really needs to chill out with that. There’s nothing going on with me and Megan, like.’
‘She seems to think there is.’
Dewi takes a deep breath. ‘OK, look, we w-went together one time at Seren Lloyd’s birthday b-barbecue. There was a bottle of Taboo and I was really drunk … But I’ve known M-M-M-Megan since primary school. I don’t really see her like that … she’s too full-on. Also she’s been with half my mates, like, isn’t it? That’s just skanky.’