by Juno Dawson
When the sirens stopped wailing, I wondered for a second if I’d gone deaf. Ivor stood cautiously, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. ‘I’ll go see what the damage is. Wait here.’
‘For the love of God be careful,’ Glynis urged.
He returned a only few minutes later but it felt like an age. ‘It’s safe enough.’
We emerged together. The farm was thick with choking dust and smoke. I placed a handkerchief over my nose and mouth and trod gingerly through the hall.
‘The barn is down,’ Ivor said flatly. ‘I need to go out and look for any unexploded bombs.’
‘Oh no, you bloody don’t, Ivor Williams,’ Glynis said, pulling him back with more strength than I’d have credited her with. ‘That’s what the army is for.’
Rick, feeling some residual guilt at his inaction, went immediately to see where he could be of aid. ‘I need to go,’ he said to me. ‘I’ve got to help where I can.’
I decided my place was at the farm. ‘Please be safe.’ I gave him a long kiss and didn’t care who saw.
Without prompting, I found a broom and got to work.
Luckily the farmhouse itself wasn’t too badly damaged, just filthy. Ivor boarded up the shattered windows while Glynis, the children and I cleaned in sombre quiet.
Glynis forbade me from going over to the post office to check on Bess, and the telephone lines were down.
And so at about one in the morning, with no word from Rick, I came to bed and started to write. I can’t sleep. I close my heavy eyelids and the memory of the sirens rings in my ears again. I don’t want to die, not now that I have something so precious to live for.
Sunday 2nd March, 1941
Agatha Moss died when a tree came down on her car. Sergeant Huw Thomas from the police station died putting out the fire at the church. Betty and Rodney Houghton, two children evacuated here for their safety, died when the attic collapsed in on their bedroom, burying them alive.
Llanmarion is in mourning today. Silence shrouds the whole town. You could reach out and sink your fingers into the sadness. This war is real to us now. Any delusion that this was all a jaunty holiday to the Welsh countryside is forgotten.
Rick held my hand as we lay flowers outside the ruined church. It’s quite understandably become a totem for the grief, its blackened bones reaching into the white sky. Bess, Doreen and Andrew stood alongside us. Even Bryn was respectfully silent. We all wore black.
Oh, it’s just too awful for words, so I shan’t write any more.
Chapter 17
Oh wow. In my head it’s like a movie. I can’t imagine really, truly being there as bombs rained down on Llanmarion … rained down on this house. My other grandma, Dad’s mum, always used to say what kids today needed was a good war, but I think I’ve always thought of war as fictional.
In my mind, if I’m honest, Hitler is no more real a villain than Darth Vader. Reading the diary, I still can’t properly feel the true horror of death camps and gas chambers – because how can anyone unless you were there – but I am beginning to appreciate that there was a whole other war for people right here.
People really died. Not just soldiers in tanks and aeroplanes. Not just unfathomably huge numbers of Jews, and gay people, and gypsies, and disabled kids and stuff. Not just evil demon Nazis with red skin and horns. People like Agatha. I liked Agatha. She was badass. Like it totally sucks! I wanted more stories about Agatha – a spin-off where she cracks codes and becomes a feisty pilot or something – but she wasn’t a character in a book, was she? She was someone Margot knew. And she died.
I lie in bed and, for the first time this autumn, feel cold. I pull the blanket at the foot of the bed over the duvet. I feel a weird mix of grateful that wars now happen miles from home and at the push of buttons, but I also feel differently about Margot. About anyone who survived the war. I can see why they think we’re all so trivial.
Maybe I am trivial. Maybe we’re all trivial. Funny how the dark brings dark thinkings. Maybe I’ll feel differently when the sun comes up.
And I do. Dawn brings the first frost of the year and the pale fields outside my window look like they’re sprinkled in glitter. The day feels fresh and so do I, even after only a few hours’ sleep.
Once a year, a girl must make a ground-breaking decision: today I will bring my winter coat out for the first time. It’s a dark purple wool with a big tawny fur collar. I wonder if I should wear my suede knee boots too. Oh, why not? Yep, it’s winter fashion time. I love winter clothes.
I trot downstairs for breakfast, the coat resting over my arm. Margot, at the kitchen table, glances at my boots over her mug. ‘Are you wearing those for school or to stand on a street corner?’ she says.
I roll my eyes. ‘Lots of girls wear them.’
‘Lots of working girls, yes.’
I decide to take the high road. ‘You know what, Margot? It’s a lovely morning and I don’t want to start the day with an argument. I’ll wear the clothes I like and you do your homeless chic.’ OK, maybe the road wasn’t that high.
She laughs, genuinely. It’s odd to hear. ‘You’re quite right. That’s what we historically fought for, I suppose. The vote, equal pay and the right to dress as ludicrously as we like, free from judgement.’
I think that’s as close to a compliment as I’m going to get so let it drop. ‘Where’s Mum?’
Margot doesn’t answer at first, then gets up and empties the last bit of her tea into the sink. ‘She’s not feeling very well so I told her to go back to bed.’
My heart beats a little higher in my chest. It’s a flashback to the worst days of her treatment – the days when she’d go for results or the day after a fresh bout of chemo. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
Margot runs the taps to wash up. ‘Oh, nothing serious. Just a bit of a cold, I expect, but as she has no need to be up, she might as well be in bed.’
I scrutinise Margot as she busies herself at the sink. She doesn’t seem overly worried, so I tuck into some toast, but I can’t shake a weird feeling. Mum is fine now. She’s in remission and has been for weeks, this is a fact, but I still feel a chill, and it’s nothing to do with the weather. When Mum was really sick, it was like a dull, constant ache pressing into the side of my brain. It didn’t matter how busy I was or what I was doing, the dread was always there, even in my dreams. It took me ages to lose it; I often caught myself thinking I’d forgotten something, when all it was was the fact I had nothing to stress about.
Just for a second that ache is back in my head.
I make myself shake it off. Everything’s fine. And I’m wearing my furry coat today.
As I leave the farm, I squeeze behind the stables and trample through unkempt grass until I find what I’m looking for. Sure enough, when I flatten down the grass I find the stumps of the old barn. Fragments of the walls remain, sticking up out of the earth. The ruins remind me of Tetris blocks.
I shiver a bit. I try to imagine the sirens, the smoke, the panic. I try to imagine squatting down in the cellar. I’m standing in history, right now. I guess we always are.
At lunchtime I help Thom catalogue some new library stock. All I’m doing is sticking a label in the front of each book and putting it on the trolley, but he seems grateful for the helping hand. I use it as an opportunity to grill him about his life. We know there’s no wedding ring, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. ‘Do you live in Llanmarion?’ I ask as innocently as possible.
‘No,’ he says, scanning a new book onto the system. ‘It’s never good to live too near to the school you’re working at.’ I want to ask where he does live, but that seems too nosy. ‘Why did you move here?’ he asks.
‘To live with my grandma.’
‘Everything all right at home?’
‘Yeah, everything’s fine.’ It’s sort of true. ‘We’ll probably go back to London next year.’ I wish I hadn’t said that. What if he thinks I’m desperate to get away? For the first time, I wonder if I even wa
nt to leave Llanmarion if it means losing him. ‘Or maybe not, I don’t know. Llanmarion isn’t so bad.’
He smiles and I feel a little buzz between us. I want to move closer, to hold his hand. ‘Tell me more about your ballet past. There’s still time to sign up for The Chess Club Presents.’
Uh. Embarrassing. ‘It’s a really long time since I last danced. I don’t even know if I could do it any more.’
‘It must be like riding a bike, no? I once went to see the Royal Ballet in London and I thought it was out of this world. I mean, how the hell do they jump so high? Are they on wires?’
Well! This little development changes everything. ‘Hmm. I dunno. Maybe I could dig out some old ballet slippers.’
‘You should. That’d be awesome.’
I want to impress him, but I honestly don’t know if I could any more. I’m so out of shape, so un-supple. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Would you wear a big pink tutu?’ Thom says with a broad grin. He’s flirting. He is definitely flirting.
‘No! Like people don’t take the piss enough!’
He laughs and scans another book. My heart is hammering and I go a bit dizzy. Every inch of my body is buzzy. I want him so bad. The want is a big lump I can’t swallow. I’ve never wanted anything like I want him.
Sunday 30th March, 1941
So where were we? Life slowly returned to normal following the air raid. Plentiful stiff upper lip and Blitz spirit as everyone chipped in to rebuild Llanmarion.
We do not complain. We do not cry in public. This is a war.
Since St David’s Day no further bombs have fallen on the village, although Cardiff and Swansea continue to be targeted. Rick helped Ivor clear the fallen barn until his back became so bad he had to take to his bed for a week. There’s now a skeleton structure on the edge of the field. Ivor says he won’t bother to rebuild it until the war is over in case it gets blown up again, which I thought very pragmatic.
Bess continues to pine over Reg, although seems to have switched her attention to Andrew, who has been a most reliable shoulder to cry on. With so many of the men away fighting, Andrew, Bryn, Bill and some other local boys have taken it upon themselves to secure the church until such time as it can be repaired. The whole spire came down so it’ll take some fixing.
Rick’s recovery took a knock-back after his exertions during the raid and the clean-up, but he is up and about again, thank goodness. During his convalescence I took him bunches of hyacinths for his bedside and read him Wuthering Heights, which he enjoyed, but I could sense cabin fever setting in. Among the poor souls with lost limbs and missing eyes, I think Rick feels as if he’s wasting a bed.
It sits heavy in my heart, but I know a part of him longs to return to service. The male ego is a soft-boiled thing and I think languishing here emasculates him. Of course no one openly criticises the injured soldiers at the infirmary, but there is some unspoken urgency for them all to get out and resume their manly destiny of dying over a field in France.
Yesterday, as a late celebration for my birthday, we drove up to the Devil’s Cup again. It was positively spring-like and I wore no coat, only a cardigan the same hue as the meek sunshine. I tied my hair back with a royal blue ribbon and felt truly light in spirits for the first time since that night.
We drank brandy wine and kissed as the sun shimmered on the lake. Since the night of the bombing our kisses have taken on new urgency. Quite suddenly he stopped and stroked my cheek. ‘Margot, I love you,’ he said.
I knew of our love the first time I met him, but this is the first time he has said it aloud. ‘I love you too,’ I replied simply.
We kissed a while longer. I probably shouldn’t commit this to the page, but I let his hands explore my body and it was exhilarating. When they started to wander too far, I gently reminded him that I’m a lady. ‘Richard Sawyer, behave yourself.’
He did as he was told. ‘I don’t wanna lose you.’
I cupped his handsome jaw in my hand. ‘Whatever makes you think you will?’
The sun shone in his eyes, giving them an amber glow. ‘We don’t know how long this war’s going to go on. We don’t know if I’ll survive it. If any of us will. I don’t want to … I can’t wait for it to be over for us to be together.’
I knew what he meant. Since St David’s Day I no longer assume I have the forevers I thought I had. I dare myself to imagine the day down the road when we will be able to marry, but it seems so far away. ‘We have time,’ I said feebly.
Rick shook his head. ‘Margot, if this war’s taught me anything it’s that we’ve got now. All we ever have is now.’
He was right. We have this moment and our love, and what else really matters?
Chapter 18
Ew. Is Margot about to have sex? I don’t know if I’m ready for my grandma to go full Judy Blume on me. This diary should come with one of those little aeroplane sick bags if that’s the case.
I’m in the library waiting for Danny to finish his overdue maths homework so we can go back to his and watch Neighbours and Home and Away. ‘Why don’t we ever go back to yours?’ he asks. ‘It’s gotta be bigger than mine.’
‘Yeah, but our TV is tiny and Margot doesn’t even have a video,’ I lie. Also I just don’t want to explain Mum’s wig or baldness. ‘Anyway, hurry up, Helen Daniels isn’t going to live any longer just because you forgot your maths.’
‘OK, I’ll be like ten minutes.’
‘Oi, Fliss.’ It’s Rhys, Dewi’s friend. He and Dewi are doing their homework on the next table over.
‘What?’ I say.
‘No shouting,’ Thom says from the front desk. ‘It is still a library.’
Rhys beckons me over, although Dewi is suddenly beetroot-faced. ‘What’s up?’ I say more quietly, heading over.
‘Dewi drew you,’ Rhys says excitedly. ‘Show her, you tit.’
Dewi looks like he’d rather do anything but. ‘Rhys, you’re s-such a dong.’
‘You drew me?’ I ask with apprehension.
‘He’s really good,’ Rhys says.
‘Am I clothed?’ I ask.
‘Y-yes!’
I smile and shake my head. ‘You don’t have to show me if you don’t want.’
Dewi sighs and reaches into a Fido Dido ringbinder. ‘I like draw comics and stuff. You know, like Spider-Man and X-Men.’
I take a look. It’s a proper comic strip – well, I think, as if I know anything about comic books. Although I did like that Batman film that had Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman. In the ink illustrations, I see a cute, big-eyed me – with accurate headband and shift dress – holding books to my chest.
To the rest of the world, it reads, Fliss Baker was just the new girl. But what Llanmarion doesn’t know is that, by night, Fliss becomes BRITANNIA, defender of London. The next illustration shows me in a skintight scarlet catsuit, thigh-high boots, gold crown and Union Jack shield. My hair is billowing behind me and I have a pet lion cub who looks a bit like Simba.
A huge smile splits my face. ‘Dewi, this is like totally amazing!’
‘You … You think?’
‘You’re so good! Is this like what you wanna do for a job?’
‘Oh, I dunno … I’m glad you like it.’
‘Well, you’ve dramatically overestimated my bra size, but this is so cool!’
Dewi blushes again, unable to look me in the eye. I see Thom looking over at us. I really don’t want him to think I’m with Dewi. ‘I’d better get back to Danny,’ I say, stepping away. ‘But let me know what happens next for Britannia!’
He grins shyly and I head back to our table. ‘Are you done?’ I ask Danny.
He rolls his eyes. ‘I didn’t realise there were questions on the back. Sorry. I’ll be quick as I can.’
That gives me time to read the next journal entry. With some trepidation I turn to the page and read on.
Wednesday 9th April, 1941
I wonder, when writing diary entries such as this one, if we in some way h
ope they’ll be found. There’s something decidedly Catholic about confession. I’m certainly taking my chances, and I shall have to start hiding this diary, but I don’t think I can process everything in my head holus-bolus unless I sort the noise into words.
I blame the rain.
We were out for a bike ride and the skies were cuckoo-shell blue one second and the next doomy clouds like black ink seeped across the heavens. I wonder, if I’d read them like Rorschach blots, I’d have foreseen what was to come.‘We should think about heading back,’ I said a breath before the first heavy dollops of water fell.
The clouds erupted and a punishing, freezing torrent battered us. ‘Good golly, run!’ Rick said.
Laughing and whooping, we took off down the track, pushing our bikes, but we were equidistant to the village and the farm and long before we reached either we’d be drowned rats.
‘Have you ever seen the like?’ I called over the downpour. There was a dirt track leading off the main path that seemed to lead to a big wooden barn. I don’t know who it belonged to, but it was still standing after the bombs. Better than nothing. ‘Quick! Look! That barn!’
Rick didn’t argue. We left our bikes leaning against the gate and climbed over. Running to the barn, I saw the doors were closed, but the padlock had been smashed off. Grateful for someone else’s act of vandalism, I threw open the doors and tumbled inside.
There was no machinery to be seen, only a few sad bales of hay and an old watering trough.
‘What is this place?’ I asked.
‘It’s the old Whaddon farm,’ Rick said and it took me a moment to realise where I’d heard of it. This was where Reg and Bess had their secret liasions. ‘Old man Whaddon died last year and—’
‘Ah yes, I’m familiar,’ I said, my cheeks rosy pink.
Rain hammered against the corrugated iron roof. There was a greedy rumble of thunder and I clung to Rick, remembering the bombardment.
‘It’s just thunder,’ he reassured me. ‘Looks as if we’re gonna be here a while.’ There was another flicker of lightning and a crash as if the sky was splitting. Daddy always said, the closer together the thunder and lightning, the closer the eye of the storm. The storm was upon us.