by Tania Crosse
Jane gave a confused shake of her head, her eyes wide.
‘I can get an atlas from the study,’ Meg offered, shaking herself from her pleasant reverie. ‘We’d have to clear everything away, mind, so we don’t get anything on it.’
‘No, don’t worry. I’d want to draw on it, anyway. Mrs Phillips, do you have some paper and a pen or pencil handy?’ Ralph asked.
‘I can tear a page out of my notebook,’ the cook offered. ‘Anything to explain things to the poor kid,’ she added under her breath, rolling her eyes to the heavens.
A few moments later, with Jane sitting close by his side, Ralph was sketching a map. Meg was about to start helping clear the table, but her attention was drawn by Ralph’s strong, brown hand creating a near perfect replica of the outline of the British Isles. Apart from reading, drawing and watercolour painting had been her lifelong passion, but she had no idea that Ralph could reproduce such accurate maps from memory. She wasn’t the only one who seemed fascinated, and they all crowded round to watch.
‘Here’s London,’ he said to Jane, putting a large cross to mark the spot. ‘And here’s us to the south. And then here, down in Cornwall, that’s where Mr Peregrine and his family live.’
‘That’s Mr W’s brother, isn’t it?’ Sally asked. ‘The famous artist? The one that Mr W and Mrs C and Nana May went to stay with at Easter?’
‘That’s right. You would’ve met Mr Peregrine and his family last Christmas. They were due to come up here, only they all went down with ’flu and had to cancel at the last minute. I expect they’ll come this year instead, if they can. And believe me, you’ll never forget them once you’ve met them,’ Ralph chuckled fondly. ‘But back to this, Jane,’ he continued, dragging the pencil across the page. ‘Now, this is the coast of France.’
‘Blimey, it ain’t far away, is it?’ Jane’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. ‘Loads nearer than where Mr Peregrine lives.’
‘Yes, worryingly, that’s so. And then as we go up the coast, we have Belgium, and the Netherlands, both really quite small,’ Ralph went on, talking slowly as he drew. ‘And then to the east, we have Germany and his lordship, Herr Hitler. You can see how big it is by comparison, almost as big as France. But France is very agricultural, whereas Germany is much more industrial. And that means power. And Hitler’s already taken Austria for himself, and also Czechoslovakia which is also rich in minerals and industry.’
‘Yes, I remember you all talking about that,’ Jane frowned. ‘I didn’t really understand, but now I do. But why is this thing today so important?’
‘Well, it changes things even more. And not for the better,’ Ralph said glumly. ‘Now Hitler has his sights on Poland, which you can see here is wedged between Germany and Russia. But we have signed a pledge to help protect Poland, and we were hoping to get Russia on our side as well. But we failed, and now they’ve signed this agreement with Germany instead. And you can see how enormous and powerful Russia is. So if Russia supports Germany from the east, like so,’ Ralph concluded, drawing arrows across from Russia into Poland, ‘and Germany attacks from the west,’ this said breaking off to put more arrows, ‘Poland won’t stand a chance, and Hitler will add all its industrial strength to his pot of gold. And with Italy to the south, here, being friends with Germany, it’ll leave Hitler free to invade west,’ – more arrows – ‘to the Netherlands, Belgium, France. And then us.’
Jane’s eyes grew even wider, and her jaw dropped. ‘Oh, Lordy love, it really is serious, ain’t it?’
‘Yes, sadly it is.’ Ralph puffed out his cheeks. ‘But at least you understand now.’
‘Yes. Thanks, Ralph.’ Jane frowned, and Meg wondered if she wasn’t still a little puzzled. ‘Can I keep the drawing?’ she asked, brightening a little almost as if Ralph’s map were a prize.
‘Of course you can.’
‘And I think we need to give Ralph a clap.’ Meg forced a smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere, and everyone joined in a round of applause before slowly dispersing to return to work. ‘That was brilliant,’ she said to Ralph, raising her eyebrows in admiration. ‘You should’ve been a teacher rather than a gardener. And I had no idea you could do maps like that.’
Ralph’s mouth twisted in wry embarrassment. ‘I’ve always been interested in maps. And you know how we’ve all been keeping abreast of what’s been going on. But give me a garden over a schoolroom any day. And, well, I did feel a bit like the harbinger of doom just now.’
‘You can’t help what’s happening, Ralph. And I bet you Jane wasn’t the only one listening intently to what you were saying. Half the population probably don’t understand all the ins and outs. Just that war seems very likely now. But I suppose with the factory, we feel more involved.’
‘We’re all going to be involved if you ask me.’ Ralph released a rueful sigh, rubbing his hand over his chin. ‘But nothing’s going to stop what I feel for you. So, come here,’ he teased, pulling her down onto his lap, ‘and give me a kiss.’
Meg willingly obliged, trying to force all her fears to the back of her mind. In his arms, she felt protected, as if the world and all its troubles were blocked out. It seemed impossible that two people could love each other so much when whole countries were threatening to bomb each other to smithereens.
‘I know!’ She suddenly bounced up. ‘Why don’t we have a picnic down by the lake tomorrow? To cheer ourselves up? All of us. Mrs C and Nana May, your parents. I’ll go and ask Mrs C now.’
Ralph couldn’t help but laugh as Meg skipped out of the room before he had a chance to answer. She was a great one for planning, was his Meg. He’d never met anyone so mature for her age. That was why he’d been so struck by her the first time they’d met, the morning after her parents had been killed. There she was, all alone, coping with the family farm. Broken, defensive, and yet through it all, so dignified. He’d admired her, even if she’d been as sharp as a thorn with him. But that had been her grief talking. Now he knew her as intelligent, sensible, compassionate, and yet with a glorious sense of fun.
It was no wonder he loved her! But what this looming war was going to mean for them, God alone knew.
*
Meg dipped the wide brush in the little pot of water and, collecting a moss green tincture on it from the palette, stroked it across the paper beneath the grey wash of the lake. She’d already captured the azure sky streaked with hazy ribbons of dappled cloud, and the woods beyond the open fields on the far side of the lake. The verdant wash for the grass would complete the background, and then she would have to wait for it all to dry before she could start putting in the detail, the reeds by the water’s edge, the ducks, the figures playing an impromptu game of rounders. They were all there, Ralph making her heart leap up inside her as he bowled gently to Jane who squealed with delight as she actually managed to hit the ball, Mrs Phillips presiding over the picnic set out on a tartan blanket, and Mrs C and Nana May reclining in deckchairs with Ralph’s parents beside them. And of course, she mustn’t forget the dogs! Meg could see it all in her mind’s eye ready to add in later.
‘Oh, Meg, dear, that’s very good.’
Clarrie’s voice at her shoulder made her jump. She’d been concentrating so hard on the painting that she hadn’t heard her mistress come up behind her.
‘Oh, it’s just the beginning,’ she answered. ‘I wanted to capture a record of today. Something we can all look at and remember. I’m going to put everybody in there when it’s dry, even Mr W and Jane’s Eric, even if they’re not actually here today. I want it to be a friendship painting. So that if there are hard times ahead, we can look at this and know that we’re all going to help each other through.’
She watched as the tiny muscles in Mrs C’s forehead twitched. ‘I think that’s a lovely idea. Just as this picnic is. We none of us know what’s coming, after all. Life can be so cruel.’ She broke off, and such an expression of distress darkened her features that Meg felt her mind still in confusion. Did Mrs C mean the accident? Bu
t it was Meg who’d lost her parents. Although Mrs C was so kind and compassionate that she could easily share someone else’s grief. But then she felt the older woman’s cool hand on her painty one, and she squeezed tightly. ‘Whoever knew that you’d come into our lives, Meg? You’ve been such a joy to me, you know. To all of us.’
Her face was creased in earnest, and Meg frowned at her. What was she trying to say? Or was the emotion of uncertainty getting the better of her? After all, they were all mentally holding their breath. The whole world was.
‘You were such a rebellious young thing when you came here,’ Mrs C went on, her lips curved contentedly. ‘No, not rebellious. Your behaviour was always impeccable. But you knew your own mind. So… I do hope you’re happy with us now, Meg.’
Meg’s face broke into a smile. ‘Yes, I am, thank you, Mrs C,’ she said sincerely, for it was indeed true. She’d only accepted the older woman’s invitation to come and live at Robin Hill House with bitter reluctance, and because it had suited her. Back then, she’d merely been biding her time until she was twenty-one and could achieve legal independence. But she hadn’t reckoned on finding such happiness there. On becoming so fond of Mr W and Mrs C and all the staff. On falling so deeply in love with Ralph.
‘Good. Because I want you to be happy, Meg. Really I do.’
‘Come on, Meg! Your turn to show us how it’s done!’ Ralph called, cutting through their conversation, and Meg’s heart flipped over, the way he was grinning across at her.
‘And there’s someone else you mean so much to!’ Mrs C suddenly grinned. ‘Even if, I believe, you did give him such a hard time at first!’
Meg blinked at her. The strange moment was over, but as she put down the paintbrush and ran across to Ralph and he caught her deliciously about the waist, she couldn’t help wondering exactly what Mrs C had meant. But perhaps it was best not to dwell on it. This was meant to be a happy interlude, after all. Her own idea. So she stretched up to brush a quick kiss on Ralph’s cheek as she broke away from his side and ran over to pick up the rounder’s bat.
‘Right, let’s see what I can do!’ she laughed, and swung her arms towards the ball that was flying through the air.
*
‘Are you sure you want to do this, Clarrie dear?’
Nana May’s lined face wrinkled with concern as Clarrie turned the key in the old trunk, unopened for years, and lifted the lid. The trunk was full, and over the top was a double layer of tissue paper, yellowing and musty with age.
Clarrie turned to her dear friend and companion, eyes swimming with unshed tears. ‘Yes,’ she replied in a small voice. ‘I’ve thought about it long and hard. There won’t be any children of our own now, Nana. My body’s long stopped working in that way. But, for a while at least, this house is going to sing with the sound of children, just as Wig and I had always meant it to. I know it’s because there’s going to be another war, and war is the most terrible thing. But if it means the house’ll be full of children, even if they’re not my own, then let me indulge myself.’
‘Of course.’ The old lady’s voice rang with compassion as the vision of the beloved toddler dying in her mother’s arms sprang into her mind so vividly even after so many years. ‘But… Rosebud’s toys? Her clothes?’
Clarrie removed the top layer of tissue paper, and then unwrapped a small, pink teddy bear. She tipped it this way and that, as if making it talk, and a rueful smile twitched at her lips. ‘What’s the use of them rotting here when the poor little mites coming to us will have so little?’
‘Well, if you’re sure. If you’re ready. But none of them will be Rosebud.’
‘I know.’ Clarrie’s words were barely audible. ‘We can never replace her. I’d never want to.’
Nana May observed her for a moment, her hand trembling as she touched Clarrie’s arm. ‘And what about Meg?’ She finally articulated the words she’d wanted to say for the past three years. ‘She’s always meant something very special to you, hasn’t she? Far more than just being someone you wanted to help?’
Clarrie flicked her eyes towards Nana May without turning her head. ‘How long’ve you known?’ she croaked.
‘Since the beginning. I think even without the coincidence of the name, you felt something for her. And she’s a great girl. I feel myself that she’s almost like a grandchild to me.’
‘And she’s like a daughter to me. Not a replacement for Rosebud, but another, a different daughter.’
‘And does Wig know?’ Nana May asked gently.
‘At first, he thought it might be the case. He was worried I’d get hurt, but I think I managed to persuade him that I just wanted to help Meg out of human kindness. Not because she makes me think of Rosebud. That’s why I can’t show Meg how I really feel, although I’m sure she knows I’m very fond of her. I hate deceiving Wig, but you won’t tell him, will you?’
‘My lips are sealed. But he might already have guessed. Anyway, let’s see what we’ve got in this trunk, shall we?’ And Nana May unfolded the tissue paper wrapped about what had been little Rosebud’s favourite rag doll.
Four
The noise of the heaving London railway station echoed in the young girl’s head and she squeezed her mother’s hand even more tightly. A bombardment of sound that made her feel dizzy. Voices raised higher and higher to make themselves heard above the clamour, boys shouting in excitement, teachers booming instructions in competition with stout women in WVS uniforms using megaphones, babies caterwauling for overdue feeds, toddlers screaming in tiredness and fear. The thunderous fanfare of hundreds, maybe thousands, of anxious, irritable human beings thrown together in a chaotic hullabaloo, swelling up and filling the high expanse of the Victorian glass roof. Porters trundling luggage trolleys, train brakes squealing as they came to a grinding halt alongside the platforms, steam and smoke hissing in sulphurous, billowing clouds.
Doris Sergeant was scared. She’d been to the station on many occasions with her mummy and daddy, skipping along happily between them because they were going to the seaside. It had been a good place to be, exciting as they found the right platform and went through the barrier, their nostrils filling with the smell of coal dust and hot engine oil. But today the fetidness of so many sweating, and in many cases unwashed, bodies, the rank taint of bad breath, dirty nappies and wet knickers, made Doris feel sick.
‘Oh, you’re a pretty young thing,’ a voice blared from below a trilby hat. ‘D’you mind if I take a picture of your daughter, madam? Doesn’t matter about her red hair. It won’t show in black and white. It’s for the Ministry of Information. Look, here are my credentials. Just let go of your mummy for a minute. That’s it. Now hold this dolly in one hand and your suitcase in the other. Excellent. Now smile at the camera.’
Doris blinked in terror as the searing light blasted into her eyes. Oh, no, she’d lost sight of her mummy! And the next instant, the doll was snatched from her, and the man moved off to assail another petrified child.
‘Why didn’t you smile, dear?’
Her mother’s beloved face was bending over her, and Doris clamped her arms about her mummy’s waist, burying her head against the thin, bony hips. Her mum had been smiling, but Doris had seen tears pooling in her eyes. Her own were dry and wide with fear and bewilderment.
‘Right, time to say goodbye to your mothers,’ a familiar voice stabbed into her misery. ‘Our train’s ready and we mustn’t keep it waiting. All the trains have a very tight schedule to keep.’
Doris was nine years old and would have been about to start in her third year at junior school if it hadn’t been for this wretched war that was supposed to be coming. ‘You’ll be safer in the countryside,’ her mummy had told her. And Doris would never argue with her adored mother even though every fibre in her young body cried out in protest.
It had broken her little heart earlier that morning saying goodbye to her daddy who couldn’t come to the station because he had to go to work. And to find when they got there that the school
had decided it would be better for the children to be escorted by their teacher of the previous year, Mrs McCormack, rather than their new teacher who they scarcely knew, had been a bitter blow.
Mrs McCormack was a bully, and Doris hated the way she would always pick on her to come up with the answer, when all Doris wanted was to hide away in a corner. But it wasn’t school she hated. It was Mrs McCormack. She’d been looking forward to the new term with the kindly Mrs Mitchell who didn’t terrify her in the same way. Just the opposite, in fact. She’d loved the time when the dragon had been off sick for a fortnight, and she’d been one of those who’d been absorbed into Mrs Mitchell’s class. So to find herself under the care of the witch amongst this seething, hostile, swarming multitude was the last straw.
Her mummy gently pulled her arms away and bent down so that her face was on the same level as her daughter’s. ‘Be a brave girl now, my darling,’ she croaked, sounding anything but brave herself. ‘We don’t know exactly where you’re going, but once you’ve arrived, write to us straightaway.’
‘Of course, Mummy,’ Doris gulped. ‘And I’ll do you some drawings, too.’
‘That’ll be lovely, poppet. But we’ll see for ourselves soon. We know you should be staying somewhere in Kent, which isn’t that far away, so we can come and visit you. So, we’re lucky, really.’ Mrs Sergeant forced a watery smile. ‘Some children are going hundreds of miles away. To places like Wales or Cornwall.’
‘I know.’ Doris’s young face screwed up in anguish. ‘I just wish you and Daddy could come, too,’ she moaned.
‘Well, Daddy has work, and only mummies with little children can go, not big girls like you. And here,’ she said, suddenly removing the brooch from her jacket lapel and pinning it on Doris’s cardigan. ‘This will keep you safe. Now you make us proud, and remember your manners at all times.’
It ripped at her heart to see the torment in her daughter’s eyes, and she pulled her against her to kiss the top of her head. But a second later, she felt Doris being wrenched away from her, and they both found themselves staring into Mrs McCormack’s irate face.