by Emma Carroll
FABER & FABER has published children’s books since 1929. Some of our very first publications included Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats by T. S. Eliot, starring the now world-famous Macavity, and The Iron Man by Ted Hughes. Our catalogue at the time said that ‘it is by reading such books that children learn the difference between the shoddy and the genuine’. We still believe in the power of reading to transform children’s lives.
CONTENTS
Title Page
The Night Visitors
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
Olive’s Army
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
Operation Greyhound
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Praise for Emma Carroll
About the Author
By the Same Author
Copyright
THE NIGHT VISITORS
1
At the exact moment the bomb hit, Stan and his sisters were on their way to get chips. They were taking the short cut through the alley that ran behind Pavilion Street. It was unusually late to be out – almost bedtime – so they were hurrying in the hope of catching the chip shop still open. The evening was warm, the sky a lovely soft orange. On nights like these – and there’d been plenty this summer – it was hard to believe there was a war on. June, the eldest, walked in front, swinging Mum’s purse so the coins inside clinked. She’d already decided on haddock with her chips. Stan and his younger sister Maggie were debating whether battered sausages or fishcakes were best, and what else they might get with Mum’s money.
‘You could have a pickled onion,’ Maggie said, the ones she meant were the size of apples and eye-wateringly strong. ‘Go on, Stan, dare you.’
‘I might, but—’
The bomb cut him off. There wasn’t a warning siren. They didn’t even hear the plane. The sizzling white flash came out of nowhere.
When Stan opened his eyes again he was lying down, staring up at someone’s washing line. It was dark. He was in a back garden. Damp from the grass was soaking into his shorts. The air smelled smoky, like bonfire night but bitter. In the distance, a fire engine wailed.
Stan sat up, dazed. ‘June? Maggie?’
There was no sign of his sisters. All he could see was things burning. Pavilion Street, which usually buzzed with buses or grocery vans, or women in aprons chatting over their front gates, was eerily quiet. It felt like he was looking at the world through very thick glass. Where earlier there’d been a row of houses, now he could see straight across to the other side of the street. If this was a dream, then it was a pretty weird one. He wished someone would tell him to wake up.
Stan’s legs, at least, were still working. As he got to his feet, string, pennies, a tiny glass bottle he’d found in the deepest part of the river, all tumbled from his torn-to-shreds pockets. Mum would be cross; she was forever mending his clothes.
She didn’t like him swimming in the river, either. If he wasn’t careful, she warned him, the river weed would pull him under and he’d never come up again.
‘I’m a decent swimmer,’ he’d tried to tell her. ‘Better than June, at any rate.’
But his mum was a prize worrier. There’d been another child between June and Stan, who’d died of diphtheria. Though he’d never met Donnie, Stan thought he might’ve been born to make up for it, which in June’s eyes he felt he never would.
Stan began to get his bearings. Behind him was the alley. To his right was their garden gate, still upright, still making that annoying squeak as he pushed it open. Beyond the gate things got confusing again. Stan’s legs began to shake, almost as if his body knew before his brain did, because he was still trying to work out where their house had gone. Where it should’ve been the ground was all caved in. Sticking out on either side of the hole, like the ribs of a long-dead giant animal, were roof timbers from the neighbouring houses.
He’d seen enough blown-apart buildings to be almost numb to it. Amongst the kids on their street, the craze for shrapnel meant scrambling over still-warm bomb sites to get the best bits. Most was from our own anti-aircraft guns. But the bits with German writing on were worth a mint, and June, who liked to be best at everything, had a shoebox full under her bed.
This was their house, though. The trembling in Stan’s legs spread up his body. All he recognised was their cooker and the bathtub, blown halfway across the yard.
‘Mum?’ He clung to the hope she’d shout down the stairs, asking him why he’d been out so late. Trouble was the staircase, like the rest of the house, had gone.
Hearing something behind him, he spun round. Two people – one tall, one small – their faces badger-streaked with mud, drifted across the garden towards him. June was still carrying Mum’s purse, though he couldn’t remember why she had it. Maggie, a few steps behind her, looked stunned.
Stan was so choked with relief, he started to cry. And then he felt ashamed to be the only one blubbing: wasn’t that always the way? June never cried at anything. And Maggie was only six, so that didn’t really count.
Clumsily, he took his younger sister’s hand. ‘Are you all right? Is Mum with you?’
‘Don’t be stupid, Stan, you know she’s not!’ June snapped.
But he didn’t know, and the way June said it made it seem as if he should.
‘Where is she, then?’ he asked.
‘Inside. Too sick to cook our tea, that’s where!’
It came back to him in an agonising jolt: Mum bent double coughing, shivering with the flu despite the good weather. Mum getting her coat on, finding her purse, and coughing, coughing. He offered to fetch the chips himself, didn’t he, and the others said they’d come too.
‘You told Mum to go back to bed.’ June scowled at him. ‘Don’t you remember?’
Stan wasn’t sure he did.
June pushed past him for the house. When she saw the huge crater, the broken roof, she stopped. Her shoulders went stiff. Her legs crumpled. She sat down on the ground with a bump. His older sister, who never cried at anything, started sobbing angrily.
‘Where’s Mum?’ Maggie wailed. ‘I want Mum.’
Holding her hand a little bit tighter, Stan tried not to admit that he wanted Mum too.
Other people were now arriving – the air-raid warden in his ARP hat, a policeman, two ambulance women carrying blankets and a stretcher.
‘But the warning siren didn’t even go off,’ the policeman was saying.
‘It was a leftover bomb, that’s why,’ the warden explained. ‘The pilot’ll have been on a raid up north somewhere, and dropped it on the way home to save fuel.’
‘He could’ve waited another mile or two till he was out over the fields,’ an ambulance woman replied. She stopped at June and put a blanket around her, passing another to Stan and Maggie. ‘Anyone inside?’
Stan nodded, though before he could explain, the other ambulance woman called out, ‘Hey, Sheila! Reckon we’ve got someone!’
‘Quick! Bring your torches over here, please!’ the blanket lady yelled.
There was a rush of people, lights, men with buckets, shovels, ropes. Someone was shouting and waving their arms. Maggie lunged forwards.
‘Stay back,’ Stan warned her, terrified in case they’d found Mum. More terrified that they hadn’t.
In the confusion o
f torch beams and shouting, he thought he glimpsed a hand, an arm, what looked like Mum’s bobbly old blue sweater. It was too dark to be sure. June was on her feet, craning to see. Stan couldn’t bear to and turned away.
It was the ambulance driver who made him turn back again. She was talking to someone – not urgent or shouty, but like she was sat at the kitchen table, enjoying a cup of tea with a pal.
‘Don’t worry, love. We’ll have you out of there and tucked up in bed in no time.’
She was holding someone’s hand. Someone in a blue sweater.
‘Mum!’ Now Stan was the one rushing forwards.
June grabbed his arm. ‘Keep back!’
‘Is she all right?’ he wanted to know.
‘She’s alive, at least,’ June said, still sounding cross. ‘Let them dig her out and get her into the ambulance. You’ve poked your nose in enough.’
He stared at her. ‘Why? What’ve I done?’
‘Mum would’ve come with us to the chippy if you hadn’t been such a fusspot,’ June said spitefully.
‘Now hang on a minute!’ Stan cried. All he’d done was suggest Mum would be better off going back to bed. Besides, like the policeman said, there hadn’t even been an air-raid warning. It was unfair to blame everything on him.
2
The next morning, in bright summer sunlight, the damage to Pavilion Street looked worse. Four houses gone in a finger-snap, five more with their roofs staved in. The street was strewn with unexpectedly personal things – a tea caddy, someone’s comic, darned grey socks, an egg cup with the name ‘Maud’ on the front. It made Stan feel lost. What was left of Pavilion Street no longer seemed like home.
Along with the other people whose houses had been bombed, they’d spent the night at the church hall. Fusty-smelling blankets were given out, cups of tea made with milk powder that floated on the top in lumps. The mood was quiet, sombre. Every now and again you’d hear someone snivelling or giving an epic sigh. Though Maggie had fallen asleep quickly, Stan couldn’t get comfortable in his spot on the floor. At least their mum was now safe in a hospital bed, though it didn’t stop him feeling guilty. What June had said kept going round and round in his head.
He was a fusspot. A worrier like their mum – that’s what June thought. Compared to her, maybe he was. His sister had a knack for being annoyingly right.
*
Mid-morning, when the news came that the children of Pavilion Street were being sent to the countryside, Stan was almost relieved. He’d hated saying goodbye to Mum last night as she went off in the ambulance. This stupid war was going on far too long. He was sick of bombs. Sick of air raids and shelters, and not knowing what was going to fall out of the sky next.
He knew most of the other kids in the church hall, at least by sight. Like Lalit Gupta, who lived across the road and was decent with a cricket bat, and Clive Spencer and Tommy Cooke from June’s class at school.
‘Quiet, children! Quiet, please!’ A lady called Mrs Cartwright from the Women’s Voluntary Service tried to address them all. ‘If you’ll just stop talking for a moment—’
Stan felt a bit sorry for her because no one was listening. It was June who finally stood up and yelled, ‘SHUT YOUR GOBS, EVERYONE!’
It worked. Now the room was quiet, Mrs Cartwright explained where they were going. She mentioned a bus ride, hills, an old country house. It sounded quite a long way from the city, but Stan tried to think of all the fields there’d be for running in, trees for climbing, and hopefully a river where they could swim.
‘Exciting, isn’t it, Maggot?’ he whispered to Maggie, who was listening with her mouth open.
Clive Spencer didn’t think so.
‘The Somerset hills?’ He pulled a face. ‘Not being funny, Mrs Cartwright, but it doesn’t sound much of a laugh.’
June hated Clive Spencer. Called him a show-off and a big mouth, which was actually what she could be like sometimes. Her mood hadn’t improved much this morning, either. Stan felt he was tiptoeing over eggshells.
‘It’s very kind of Miss Barrington to put us up, Clive,’ Mrs Cartwright said patiently. ‘There aren’t many places able to house twenty children at such short notice.’
Lalit put up his hand. ‘I expect the army made her take us, miss. If her house is that big, she has to. It’s called requisitioning.’
Mrs Cartwright sighed as if she knew all this, but Stan didn’t. And to his surprise he found himself agreeing with Clive Spencer. If they were going miles from home to stay with someone who didn’t want them, then it didn’t sound so exciting after all.
*
On the map Mrs Cartwright showed them, it looked about seventy miles from Bristol. They set off just after lunch. The bus was slow and hot, with seats that your legs stuck to and windows that didn’t open properly. Maggie leaned sleepily against Stan’s shoulder. June sat behind them, her knees digging into the back of his seat.
‘Don’t know why she’s still got a grump on,’ he muttered to Maggie. He’d hoped going somewhere different might cheer her up.
June nudged his seat. ‘Oi! Watch it.’
Stan turned around. ‘It’s true. You are grumpy.’
‘Leave me alone,’ June said sulkily.
‘Don’t be cross, Junie.’ Maggie yawned.
June glared at her, then at Stan. ‘And don’t start crying, either. It’s about time you toughened up. There’s a war on, you know.’
‘I do know, actually!’ Stan replied, frustrated because yet again June was right, he was on the verge of tears.
*
By the time the bus reached Taunton, it was making a nasty grinding sound.
‘It’s not much further!’ Mrs Cartwright informed them cheerfully.
But as they left the town behind, and the roads got steeper and narrower, the grinding became a clanking. Steam started to drift past the windows. With lots of revving they got as far as the very top of a hill before the driver stopped. Up ahead the road dipped down sharply to a village.
‘It’s as far as I’m taking you,’ the driver stated. ‘You’re better off walking from here.’
There were groans, especially from the lucky few who’d salvaged enough from home to have suitcases stuffed with belongings. All that most of the children had with them were the emergency paper bags given by the Red Cross before they’d left Bristol, each with a toothbrush, a flannel and a comb inside. Maggie had been very excited by hers.
Climbing from the bus, they waited to be told what to do next. Stan could feel the sun on the back of his neck. The afternoon was a hot one. He had fond thoughts of cold orange squash, ices, the shady bit in their back garden where he’d play dolls with Maggie when it got too warm to do anything else.
‘Is the house we’re going to in the village?’ Maggie asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
‘’Spect so,’ he replied.
As far as Stan could tell there weren’t any houses up here, just more very high hedges. There weren’t any woods, either, and there definitely wasn’t anywhere good for swimming. It all looked rather dull. Not like Pavilion Street with its shops, houses, blocks of flats, church hall, pub, and just a short walk away, his beloved spot where the river ran slow and deep by the railway bridge. Homesickness came over him in a wave. Already the bus was leaving, reversing in a cloud of black smoke up the lane. There was no going back now. Even if they had somewhere to go back to.
‘This way, please! Hurry up now, no dawdling!’ Mrs Cartwright beckoned for the children to follow. Stan kept a wary distance from June.
Instead of heading straight down the hill towards the village, Mrs Cartwright bore right along a narrower lane, down the middle of which grass was growing. The hedges on either side were so tall it was impossible to see over them. It felt like they were walking down a long green tunnel.
‘Cripes,’ Clive Spencer groaned. ‘Talk about the back of beyond!’
Immediately, Clive and Tommy started clowning about, threatening to shove each other into the h
edge. When they got bored of that, Clive pushed Tommy into June. It caught her off guard. Made her almost lose her step.
‘Are you all right?’ Stan was quick to ask.
‘Stop fussing,’ she hissed, then louder so Clive and Tommy would hear, ‘What a pair of idiots!’
No one pushed his sister and got away with it. When Stan hadn’t been looking, she’d already scooped up a handful of dirt, shaping it in her hand until it was as hard as a stone. June wasn’t scared of anything, or anyone. Yet though Stan admired her for it, it made him anxious too. Just as she was about to take aim, Mrs Cartwright halted the group at what appeared to be the entrance to a house.
‘Here we are, then!’ She clapped her hands for everyone’s attention.
With a shiver, Stan stared up at the gates towering above him. They were easily ten feet high, all swirly and dramatic-looking and made of so much iron, it was a wonder they hadn’t been taken off to be made into weapons like the local park railings back at home. The gates were shut, not locked. When Mrs Cartwright told them to, the older boys heaved them open.
‘Right, children!’ she said, in a shrill voice that made her sound nervous. ‘Walk in pairs, please. No running, no pushing, Clive and Tommy. And make sure you keep to the drive.’
June took Maggie’s hand, so Stan fell in beside Lalit. The driveway they were walking down was flat at first, with trees on either side that made it shady and quite cool.
‘Looks an impressive place,’ Lalit observed.
Stan wasn’t feeling at all enthusiastic. But guessing Lalit was only trying to be friendly, he replied, ‘I suppose so – if those gates are anything to go by.’
Rounding a corner, the drive dropped away. Mrs Cartwright called for everyone to halt to admire the view. Stan shielded his eyes against the sun, for he suddenly seemed to be staring right into it.
They were on the edge of a steep valley. At the bottom of it was a house, an enormous sprawling place, with row upon row of huge windows glinting gold in the sunlight.
‘Crumbs!’ he muttered to Lalit. ‘You’re right – it is impressive!’