The Country Child

by Alison Uttley

  Their faces were kind and wrinkled like apples which had been left all winter in the apple chamber, but their eyes were so bright, and their fingers so thin, their backs were so curved and their chins so pointed, she feared they would keep her shut up for ever in the small close rooms along with the stuffed birds, the yellow canary, the wax flowers and the carved box.

  She sat on the edge of a chair, dangling her legs away from the snuffling dog and waiting for her mother, who was still drinking a cup of tea, and talking about the church bazaar.

  Susan sighed, she wanted to go home now, she was tired, and the striped sugar sticks were stickily waiting to be eaten on the dark roads. She stared round the room and sighed again. At last Mrs Garland arose and put on her bonnet and coat. Susan shuffled off her seat and stood up on one leg with her hand held out. She hoped Mrs Wheat would not kiss her, with her thin lips and the beaky nose so near, but her wishes were vain. She was kissed and her height, age, and general attainments discussed, and all the time the tantalizing music blazed outside, and rockets flew up among the trees, and girls squealed with happiness.

  Susan breathed deeply as they stepped out of the stuffy house into the cold fresh air, leaving the witches behind. The fair welcomed them, but Margaret kept close to the pavement, and hurried through the people with Susan dragging back. As they passed the swingboats they saw Becky and the oatcake man flying up to the sky.

  They left the light and splendours behind them and walked along the dark roads with no light, not even a star. Their eyes, at first dazzled by the change, got used to the blackness. The shapes of trees and haystacks and a wayside cottage loomed out at them. On a window blind Susan saw a cage with a ruffled little bird asleep on his perch, and the sound of a concertina came softly through the door.

  ‘Mr Samson playing a hymn,’ remarked Margaret, turning her head. ‘He doesn’t hold with Wakes’ Week, he says it brings folk to hell.’

  The woods dropped down to the roadside and they walked by the river which shone like a snake in the darkness. Susan could see the monkey elm tree against the sky, its arms outstretched as if to spring. She said nothing but turned round until it was out of sight in the curve of the road.

  A tiny light came wavering and flickering towards them. ‘There’s Joshua with the lantern,’ cried Susan, and they hurried forward to save his legs. They climbed the long hill, winding where the horses winded, looking down on the tops of trees, and the curving river which flowed round a loop before it disappeared far away behind another hill.

  The darkness lightened and stars came out. They passed a group of horses which sought companionship, leaning over the walls with noses touching and eyes faintly luminous in the rays of the lantern.

  Like a lighthouse on an island, they saw the farm shining down on them, with its lamp among the planets. Susan walked with her head in the air watching the light and the mass of chimneys which stood out against a cluster of stars.

  Everything seemed to move. The chimney-stacks swept across the Great Bear, the Pleiades were entangled in the elm’s boughs, a shooting star fell with a trail of gold, the trees dropped lower and lower as they climbed above them.

  Windystone floated in the air.

  ‘It’s all moving,’ whispered Susan, ‘moving on and on,’ and she felt as if wings were behind her which would carry her away, too.

  But down there waited the Dark Wood, with twisted trunks of oak and fountains of birch, with elephant beeches and knotted ash, alive and powerful.

  She ran in front and opened the big white gate. Then she let it crash behind her, echoing across the hills, to tell Them she was safe.

  Acknowledgements

  The Author’s thanks are due to the Editor of The Spectator for permission to reprint an episode, ‘Haymakers’, in this book, and also to the Oxford University Press for the use of ‘Wassail Song’, from The Oxford Book of Carols.

  1884 Born Alice Jane Taylor on 17 December in Cromford, Derbyshire

  1892 Goes to Lea School in Holloway, two miles’ walk from Cromford

  1897 Wins a scholarship to the Lady Manners School in Bakewell, where her favourite subject is science

  1903 Attends the University of Manchester and becomes only the second woman to graduate with honours in physics

  1908 Having trained as a teacher at Cambridge, takes up the position of physics teacher at Fulham Secondary School for Girls in London

  1911 Marries James Uttley

  1924 They move to Bowdon in Cheshire and live there until 1938

  1929 Her first children’s book, The Squirrel, the Hare and the Little Grey Rabbit, is published

  1930 Her husband, James, tragically dies. Alison (her pen name) turns to writing full-time to support herself and her teenage son

  1931 The Country Child, a memoir of her childhood experiences at her family-farm home in Derbyshire, is published

  1934 How Little Grey Rabbit Got Back Her Tail is published and over the next twenty years she writes many more stories about Little Grey Rabbit

  1938 Settles in Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire, in a house that she names Thackers after the manor house in A Traveller in Time

  1939 A Traveller in Time, the first of several novels for older children, is published

  1940 First publication of the series of stories featuring mischievous Sam Pig, which were to strengthen her reputation as a children’s author. Other characters follow, including Tim Rabbit, Brock the Badger, Little Red Fox and Little Brown Mouse

  1966 Publishes a cookbook for adults called Recipes from an Old Farmhouse

  1970 She is awarded an Honorary Doctor of Letters degree by Manchester University in recognition of her literary achievements

  1976 Dies 7 May in Buckinghamshire, aged ninety-one

  1978 A Traveller in Time is serialized for BBC TV

  Interesting Facts

  There is a blue plaque to remember the life and work of Alison Uttley at Castle Top Farm, where The Country Child is based.

  Despite her Physics degree Uttley was a firm believer in fairies, ghosts, time-travel and the existence of other worlds.

  Where Did the Story Come From?

  The Country Child is a semi-autobiographical account of Alison Uttley’s childhood on Castle Top Farm, near Cromford in Derbyshire. The use of her memories makes the story much more vivid as she experienced a very similar life to Susan’s. She loved living in the countryside and this familiarity and her famous attention to detail bring the pastures and woods of Derbyshire to life.

  Guess Who?

  A … staring at her black eyes and wishing they were blue, touching her short dark hair and longing for golden curls.

  B … a round-cheeked, apple-faced woman, with brown hair taken straight back from her low, beautiful forehead.

  C He was as much a part of the hillside as the trees and grass.

  D ‘I’ve heeard tell as how.’

  E ‘Nobody doesna want me, I reckon, but Mr Right will come some day.’

  ANSWERS:

  A) Susan Garland

  B) Margaret Garland

  C) Tom Garland

  D) Joshua Taberner

  E) Becky Moss

  Words Glorious Words!

  Lots of words have several different meanings – here are a few you’ll find in this Puffin book. Use a dictionary or look them up online to find other definitions.

  besom a broom made of twigs tied round a stick

  pinafore a sleeveless apron-like dress worn over clothes, often to keep them clean

  dripping melted fat, used cold as a spread for bread

  dirge a sad song

  tiddly tiny or small

  sweetheart a person who is having a romantic relationship with someone

  thrifty using money and other resources carefully and not wastefully

  Did You Know?

  Alison Uttley wrote more than a hundred books, mostly for young children, including thirty in the Little Grey Rabbit series.

  In 1906 Alison became only t
he second woman to graduate with honours in Physics at Manchester University.

  At Windystone Hall they would have only been able to milk six cows per hour. Now modern machines can milk a hundred cows an hour!

  The first chocolate Easter eggs were made in Europe in the early nineteenth century.

  Quiz

  Thinking caps on – Let’s see how much you can remember! Answers are on the next page. (No peeking!)

  1 Which book did Susan buy with her half-crown piece?

  a) The Tower of Faith

  b) Nicholas Nickleby

  c) A Thousand and One Arabian Nights’ Entertainment

  d) Robinson Crusoe

  2 Why is Susan afraid of the woods?

  a) It is too dark and she might trip

  b) The Things might get her

  c) She hates spiders

  d) She is scared of foxes and weasels

  3 What was the Christmas kissing-bunch made of?

  a) Mistletoe

  b) Ivy

  c) Holly

  d) Thyme and Sage

  4 What was Susan’s godmother, Miss Susannah Dickory’s, dog called?

  a) Roger

  b) Dan

  c) Sparkle

  d) Twinkle

  5 Why did Susan invite all the girls at school to tea?

  a) To show them her blue velvet egg

  b) To play with her dog

  c) For her birthday

  d) To have company through the woods

  ANSWERS:

  1) c

  2) b

  3) c

  4) d

  5) a

  Make and Do

  Decorate eggs for Easter!

  YOU WILL NEED:

  ❋ Eggs

  ❋ A pin or needle

  ❋ Your favourite felt-tip pens, paints or glitter

  ❋ PVA craft glue

  ❋ Kitchen towel

  1 Using the pin, carefully poke a very small hole in one end of your egg.

  2 Then poke a slightly bigger hole in the other end of the egg and pierce the yolk.

  3 Blow gently into the small end so that the yolk and white come out the other end.

  4 Rinse the egg out with water, shake gently and tip out the water.

  5 Dry the egg carefully with kitchen towel.

  6 Now decorate your egg! Spread some PVA glue over the shell and sprinkle with glitter. Or colour with felt-tip pens or paints.

  7 Make several decorated eggs to give to all your friends and family!

  The Highway Code is first published.

  The first nonstop flight crosses the Pacific Ocean, from Japan to America.

  The Abbey Road Studios are opened in London, ready for the Beatles!

  The Empire State Building officially opens in New York.

  Puffin Writing Tip

  Read every draft out loud because it’s the only way you’ll find trouble spots – if you keep tripping up think about how you could rewrite those parts.

  If you have enjoyed reading The Country Child you may like Carrie’s War by Nina Bawden, in which Carrie and her little brother are evacuated to the Welsh countryside during the Second World War.

  Nina Bawden

  CARRIE’S WAR

  CHAPTER TWO

  He threw up all over Miss Fazackerly’s skirt. He had been feeling sick ever since they left the main junction and climbed into the joggling, jolting little train for the last lap of their journey, but the sudden whistle had finished him.

  Such a noise – it seemed to split the sky open. ‘Enough to frighten the dead,’ Miss Fazackerly said, mopping her skirt and Nick’s face with her handkerchief. He lay back limp as a rag and let her do it, the way he always let people do things for him, not lifting a finger. ‘Poor lamb,’ Miss Fazackerly said, but Carrie looked stern.

  ‘It’s all his own fault. He’s been stuffing his face ever since we left London. Greedy pig. Dustbin.’

  He had not only eaten his own packed lunch – sandwiches and cold sausages and bananas – but most of Carrie’s as well. She had let him have it to comfort him because he minded leaving home and their mother more than she did. Or had looked as if he minded more. She thought now that it was just one of his acts, put on to get sympathy. Sympathy and chocolate! He had had all her chocolate, too! ‘I knew he’d be sick,’ she said smugly.

  ‘Might have warned me then, mightn’t you?’ Miss Fazackerly said. Not unkindly, she was one of the kindest teachers in the school, but Carrie wanted to cry suddenly. If she had been Nick she would have cried, or at least put on a hurt face. Being Carrie she stared crossly out of the carriage window at the big mountain on the far side of the valley. It was brown and purple on the top and green lower down; streaked with silver trickles of water and dotted with sheep.

  Sheep and mountains. ‘Oh, it’ll be such fun,’ their mother had said when she kissed them good-bye at the station. ‘Living in the country instead of the stuffy old city. You’ll love it, you see if you don’t!’ As if Hitler had arranged this old war for their benefit, just so that Carrie and Nick could be sent away in a train with gas masks slung over their shoulders and their names on cards round their necks. Labelled like parcels – Caroline Wendy Willow and Nicholas Peter Willow – only with no address to be sent to. None of them, not even the teachers, knew where they were going. ‘That’s part of the adventure,’ Carrie’s mother had said, and not just to cheer them up: it was her nature to look on the bright side. If she found herself in Hell, Carrie thought now, she’d just say, ‘Well, at least we’ll be warm.’

  Thinking of her mother, always making the best of things (or pretending to: when the train began to move she had stopped smiling) Carrie nearly did cry. There was a lump like a pill stuck in her throat. She swallowed hard and pulled faces.

  The train was slowing. ‘Here we are,’ Miss Fazackerly said. ‘Collect your things, don’t leave anything. Take care of Nick, Carrie.’

  Carrie scowled. She loved Nick, loved him so much sometimes that it gave her a pain, but she hated to be told to do something she was going to do anyway. And she was bored with Nick at the moment. That dying-duck look as he struggled to get his case down from the rack! ‘Leave it to me, silly baby,’ she said, jumping up on the seat. Dust flew and he screwed up his face. ‘You’re making me sneeze,’ he complained. ‘Don’t bounce, Carrie.’

  They all seemed to have more luggage than when they had started. Suitcases that had once been quite light now felt as if they were weighed down with stones. And got heavier as they left the small station and straggled down a steep, cinder path. Carrie had Nick’s case as well as her own and a carrier bag with a broken string handle. She tucked it under one arm, but it kept slipping backwards and her gas mask banged her knee as she walked.

  ‘Someone help Caroline, please,’ Miss Fazackerly cried, rushing up and down the line of children like a sheep dog. Someone did – Carrie felt the carrier bag go from under her arm, then one suitcase.

  It was a bigger boy. Carrie blushed, but he wasn’t a Senior: he wore a cap like all boys under sixteen, and although he was tall, he didn’t look very much older than she was. She glanced sideways and said, ‘Thank you so much,’ in a grown-up voice like her mother’s.

  He grinned shyly back. He had steel-rimmed spectacles, a few spots on his chin. He said, ‘Well, I suppose this is what they call our ultimate destination. Not much of a place, is it?’

  They were off the cinder track now, walking down a hilly street where small, dark houses opened straight on to the pavement. There was sun on the mountain above them, but the town was in shadow; the air struck chill on their cheeks and smelled dusty.

  ‘Bound to be dirty,’ Carrie said. ‘A coal-mining town.’

  ‘I didn’t mean dirt. Just that it’s not big enough to have a good public library.’

  It seemed a funny thing to bother about at the moment. Carrie said, ‘The first place was bigger. Where we stopped at the junction.’ She peered at his label and read his name. Albert Sandwich. She s
aid, ‘If you came earlier on in the alphabet you could have stayed there. You only just missed it, they divided us after the Rs. Do your friends call you Ally, or Bert?’

  ‘I don’t care for my name to be abbreviated,’ he said. ‘Nor do I like being called Jam, or Jelly, or even Peanut Butter.’

  He spoke firmly but Carrie thought he looked anxious.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of sandwiches,’ she said. ‘Only of the town Sandwich in Kent, because my granny lives there. Though my dad says she’ll have to move now in case the Germans land on the coast.’ She thought of the Germans landing and her grandmother running away with her things on a cart like a refugee in a newspaper picture. She gave a loud, silly laugh and said, ‘If they did, my gran ’ud give them What For. She’s not frightened of anyone, I bet she could even stop Hitler. Go up on her roof and pour boiling oil down!’

  Albert looked at her, frowning. ‘I doubt if that would be very helpful. Old people aren’t much use in a war. Like kids – best out of the way.’

  His grave tone made Carrie feel foolish. She wanted to say it was only a joke, about boiling oil, but they had arrived at a building with several steps leading up and were told to get into single file so that their names could be checked at the door. Nick was waiting there, holding Miss Fazackerly’s hand. She said, ‘There you are, darling. There she is, didn’t I tell you?’ And to Carrie, ‘Don’t lose him again!’

  She ticked them off on her list, saying aloud, ‘Two Willows, One Sandwich.’

  Nick clung to Carrie’s sleeve as they went through the door into a long, dark room with pointed windows. It was crowded and noisy. Someone said to Carrie, ‘Would you like a cup of tea, bach? And a bit of cake, now?’ She was a cheerful, plump woman with a singsong Welsh voice. Carrie shook her head; she felt cake would choke her. ‘Stand by there, then,’ the woman said. ‘There by the wall with the others, and someone will choose you.’