Sam shot a look at Mel, who nodded.
‘Fine by me. If it’s okay with you?’
Sam grimaced, but his eyes were laughing. ‘Course. I didn’t want any sleep anyway.’
‘Result.’ Mel did a fist pump of celebration, looking at Lucy. ‘That means we can go to the pub for a nightcap. If you fancy one, that is?’
Tucked into a little table at the side of the pub, Lucy waited while Mel made her way to the bar. The pub was expensively furnished: all exposed beams and posh nibbles, definitely not what she’d been expecting from a village pub in the middle of nowhere. She picked up the wine menu and looked at the prices, which were eye-wateringly expensive. You only had to look around at the Range Rovers and Audi 4x4s parked in the driveways, and the well-stocked village shop, to realize that there was quite a lot of money in Little Maudley. The landlord, wearing a polo shirt monogrammed with the pub logo, looked across in her direction over Mel’s shoulder and gave a wave of greeting.
‘Bloody hell.’ Mel slid into the chair, putting two glasses down on the table. ‘It’s impossible to get served round here these days. It’s gone downhill since it went all posh.’
‘I was wondering about that.’ Lucy took a sip of her drink. She sat back, looking around at the clientele. Most of them were dressed in an expensive-looking uniform: brightly coloured open-necked shirts, neatly pressed dark jeans and brown deck shoes for the men, and taupe slim-legged trousers and nautical striped tops with scarves around the neck for the women. In contrast, she was wearing a knee-length floral dress with a denim jacket and a pair of white sneakers, and Mel was in a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a black t-shirt. Mel took a drink and pushed her untidy curls back from her face as she spoke.
‘The commuters and the weekenders have taken over this place. It’s just close enough to the train station for people to travel into London, at a push. Most families who grew up here can’t afford to buy, and the ones who’re still here are getting edged out. Especially with –’ she lowered her voice – ‘well, there’s rumours that royalty might be moving nearby. And of course, the Beckhams are not far off. And then there’s the whole Chipping Norton set not that far down the road. It’s all terribly – terribly.’ She made a face and put on a posh accent for the last part.
‘So you and – Sam . . .’ Lucy wasn’t sure why, but she stumbled on his name. ‘You’re local, though?’
‘God, yes. Cut us in half and you’ll see Little Maudley stamped on us like sticks of seaside rock. Neither of us has ever moved away for long.’ Mel raised her chin slightly, looking defiant.
‘You weren’t tempted?’
A couple squeezed past on their way out, bumping their table and apologizing.
‘Oh, of course. I went to uni in Bath, swore I was going to spend the rest of my life over there. Got together with Camille’s dad, bought a nice little house, got a nice little job, had a baby; then he had a nice little affair and left me for his business partner.’
Lucy swallowed. Mel didn’t exactly mince her words.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
Mel shook her head emphatically, so the curls she’d tucked behind her ears came flying loose again.
‘God, don’t be. It was a lucky escape. I came back here, moved in with my dad, retrained as a dog trainer, and I’ve been in heaven ever since. Camille still sees her dad, I get the odd weekend and some of the holidays off, and I’ve got the freedom to go off and get my travel fix when she’s gone.’ She took another drink and then put the glass down, turning to look at Lucy and dropping her chin onto folded hands. ‘You didn’t fancy going travelling in your time off from teaching, then?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘I’ve done loads of travelling in my summer holidays.’
‘Sounds like my friend Nic.’ Mel looked suddenly bereft. ‘She moved to New Zealand a few months back.’ She took a large swig of her drink. ‘It’s stupid, but you don’t think about how much you’ll miss having someone to hang about with. It’s like you think friends are just for when you’re a kid, then your best friend buggers off to the other side of the world and . . .’ She sighed.
No wonder Mel had seemed so keen to say hello when they’d first met, thought Lucy – she was dealing with her own loss, too. ‘Tell me about it.’ Lucy shrugged and raised her glass. ‘To absent friends, who disappear to the other side of the blooming planet.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’
By the end of the evening, having shared another few drinks, Lucy and Mel swayed home together, both slightly merry and definitely glad they’d gone out.
‘I think you’ve cheered me right up,’ said Mel, as they reached the end of the lane that forked up to her little cottage. ‘It’s really weird how much I’ve missed having someone to hang out with. I mean, I love Sam to bits, but – it’s not the same.’
Lucy smiled. ‘I’m glad we met. I was a bit worried I’d be staring at the walls, with only Hamish for company.’
Mel grinned and hitched up her bra strap, which had drooped down her arm, showing below the sleeve of her top.
‘No chance of that. I’ll be knocking on the door demanding a coffee every five minutes now we’ve bonded over wine.’ She blew Lucy a kiss. ‘I might just pop in on Sam and the girls, check they’re behaving.’ She winked, and turned on her heel.
Lucy watched from the pavement opposite as Mel knocked on the door of Sam’s cottage and waved, before a chink of light emerged and she slipped inside. Maybe she and Sam were a bit more friends-with-benefits than just friends, after all. She switched on the light in the darkness of the cottage to discover that Hamish had expressed his displeasure at being left alone for the evening through the medium of poo. She sighed, and went to clean it up.
Chapter Ten
‘Hello-ooo! Lucy!’ Margaret called across the hedge from Bunty’s garden. ‘I’m so glad that you seem to be settling in well.’
Bunty had pointed out on several occasions that her daughter-in-law had a habit of popping by at unexpected moments. She and Gordon only lived about half an hour away, on the Northamptonshire border – not close enough to visit every day, but ‘near enough to be a menace’, as Bunty had said, rolling her eyes in disapproval. Lucy privately thought that Margaret was quite nice, if a bit bossy.
Lucy was shaking the rug (almost dry and no stain, she was relieved to find) outside the front door of the cottage when Margaret reappeared. ‘Problem with the rug?’
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ lied Lucy. ‘Just getting the dust off before I, er, hoover.’
Margaret gave her a slightly suspicious look. ‘Good, good. Well, I must get on.’
She disappeared into Bunty’s house and a moment later reappeared, carrying a battered-looking cardboard box full of yellowed old newspapers. Following her, her expression absolutely furious, was Bunty.
‘Lucy, I want you here as witness.’ She shook a finger at Margaret. ‘Those newspapers are not for recycling. They’re mine, and I don’t want them thrown out.’
Margaret turned to Lucy, her expression as conciliatory as Bunty’s was angry. ‘Honestly, Lucy, you can back me up on this. I’m not trying to throw out your belongings, Mother. I’m simply trying to help you get the place sorted.’
‘If I want help,’ Bunty said, ‘I’ll ask for it.’
‘But you don’t, do you?’ Margaret said, her mouth tight.
‘Lucy?’
‘Yes?’ Please don’t ask me to act as a go-between, she thought. The cottage could do with a bit of a tidy-up, but she understood why Bunty was resistant.
‘I’m sure Lucy would give me a hand.’ Bunty looked across, hopefully.
She nodded. ‘Of course.’
Margaret’s shoulders visibly dropped about two inches. ‘That would be so, so helpful. Only if you’re sure?’
‘She might even find some of my old bits and bobs from during the war. Like –’ Bunty pointed imperiously – ‘that box of newspapers you’re trying to recycle. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll have those back
, thank you very much. Lucy, if you want to come over later, perhaps we can have a look.’
When Lucy was allowed to have a proper look around, she realized that the clutter in Bunty’s house was nowhere near as bad as Margaret had made out. She already knew the kitchen, which was the heart of the house, was covered with detritus from years of family life. But the good sitting room was cool and immaculate, with a stiff, upright sofa made of spiky moquette. The room smelled of dust and mothballs, which hung in a bag by the curtains. The fireplace was decorated with old horse brasses, dulled with age. It was like stepping back in time to the 1940s, and Lucy felt a shiver of excitement. It was a historian’s idea of heaven. Margaret must be mad – if it was up to Lucy, she’d leave the place exactly as it was. It was perfect.
‘Never used this room,’ Bunty said. ‘It always felt like being at the dentist, or in a doctor’s waiting room. When we had visitors, you could tell if they were the good kind or the bad kind by where we took them. Decent ones made themselves at home at the kitchen table with the dogs and cats.’ She gave a chortle of laughter, which turned into a wheezing cough. ‘Good heavens, I am falling to bits. Don’t tell Margaret, she’ll have me shipped off in no time.’
‘I won’t breathe a word.’ Lucy smiled.
Clutching mugs of tea, they sat together in the kitchen and went through boxes of old newspaper clippings that Bunty had saved from the war years and beyond.
‘No idea why I kept half of this old stuff.’ She picked up a piece entitled ‘Local News’ and peered at it, pushing her glasses up her nose. ‘This writing is minuscule. Can you see what it says?’
Lucy took the yellowed page out of her hand. It was soft with age, and the writing really was tiny. She frowned and held it towards the light of the window.
‘Beetle drive is a success at Little Maudley village hall, something something – sorry, it’s all crumpled and the words have faded – reminder that there must be NO breach of the blackout and that torches should be carried . . .’ She paused as Bunty started to laugh.
‘Oh good God, yes. I remember that. Henry – I think you’ve met him, haven’t you?’
Lucy nodded.
‘Well – he was the ARP warden – and back then, he was an absolute stickler for the rules. We used to get up to all sorts of mischief when the lights went out.’
‘That’s funny; he said something along those lines when I met him for a cup of tea at the village shop.’
Bunty looked tickled by this. ‘Did he, now? Well, let me tell you.’
Lucy put the paper down on the table and leaned forward, her chin in her hand, listening.
‘One night after a lecture in the hall, Milly Fowler and I – she was the schoolteacher and terribly naughty – saw – well, heard really, it was so dark – someone cycle straight into the village pond. We roared with laughter. The blackout was dreadful, but such fun.’
‘It must have been strange arriving here during the war, especially after London. Didn’t you find it very quiet?’ Lucy was chancing her arm, trying to get Bunty to talk. It was worth a try, at least.
‘Yes. Well, I arrived in Bletchley, actually – was invited to an interview. They used hundreds of us girls because the men were off fighting. I had to answer all sorts of peculiar questions, and then they send me a postcard telling me to report to the main house at eight thirty one sunny morning. Didn’t have a clue where I was going, or what I’d be doing.’
‘That’s amazing. I was only there the other day. I can’t believe you walked in through those gates all those years ago. Weren’t you nervous?’ Oh God, she was gabbling. She pressed her lips together and waited for a long moment. She had to let Bunty talk in her own time, not flatten her with her enthusiasm and a desire to know everything.
‘Hmm?’ Bunty had been sidetracked, picking up another piece of yellowed, faded newspaper. Her brow furrowed and she looked down at it for a moment in silence before giving a heavy sigh. Then she folded it up, putting it to one side. ‘Not really. One just did what one was told in those days.’
‘Oh, look. What’s this?’ Lucy lifted up a photograph album. The edges were battered and the leather cover scuffed and cracked with age.
‘Oh, that’s nothing. Just some old photographs and mementos. I’ll sort that later. But I thought perhaps some of these might be interesting, seeing as you’re looking into the village in wartime.’ She pushed another album towards Lucy, and several curled-up black-and-white photographs slid out.
‘Oh, look.’ A stern-faced woman, stout in a gingham apron, was standing in the doorway of Bunty’s cottage.
‘That’s Mrs Brown, our landlady. We were billeted here – I shared a room with Milly, and there were also four little evacuees from the East End – look, there they are, in this one.’
She passed over another photograph. Two little girls with their hair in neat plaits sat perched on the garden wall. Two older boys, their hair cropped short, stood awkwardly to the side.
‘I remember that day.’ Bunty chuckled. ‘They’d had their heads clipped because we’d discovered that everyone in the school had nits. Mrs Brown covered the girls’ hair with vinegar and plaited it up. I feel itchy just thinking about it.’
Lucy gazed at the photographs. Bunty’s story made them seem so alive somehow. This was exactly why history mattered – why she wanted to record this sort of thing. It felt like a huge seal of approval; being given a window into her wartime world was a real honour. She beamed at Bunty, hoping that would suffice.
‘Oh, these are amazing.’ The next couple of black-and-white photographs showed a young Bunty standing, a hand shading her eyes from the sun, in a pair of knee-length shorts. She was astride a bicycle with a flower in her hair.
‘I was given such a scolding when Mrs Brown saw I’d been into town in those. She was terribly fierce.’ Bunty’s shoulders shook as she laughed. ‘We used to sneak pieces of her apple cake upstairs when she wasn’t looking. She thought she had mice.’
‘So how did you end up here, if you were sent to Bletchley?’
‘Oh, they sent us all over the place. I thought I was in heaven when I arrived at Bletchley. All those chaps bustling around all over the place, and lots to do. You can imagine my dismay when they shunted me off to the depths of beyond. I didn’t have a clue about the countryside.’
Little Maudley must have been a shock to a girl who’d been brought up in the middle of Walthamstow. Lucy looked down at the photographs of the bright-eyed young girl.
‘Were lots of you sent here?’
‘Gosh, no. Just me and one other – Helen, I think her name was. I used to see her when I cycled to work in the mornings. She did evenings and weekends, but she lived in Tanwick, about five miles away in the other direction. But of course, we didn’t talk about what we did – one didn’t, you see.’
‘So you worked here all the way through the war, and never talked to anyone about what you did?’
Bunty nodded. She sifted through the photographs and picked one up, passing it over to Lucy. ‘I hadn’t a clue what most of the chaps were doing, you know. We just didn’t mention it.’
The chaps in the photograph were in fact four young women, all standing arm in arm in stiff-looking skirts, hair set in neat waves. Bunty was at one side, her eyes closed but a huge smile on her face.
‘It wasn’t until all the news in the last twenty years or so, when everything came out about Bletchley, that I discovered several of us in the village had all been billeted here on similar jobs. Funny to think we were all beetling back and forth to secret listening stations and signal posts, doing our bit, and yet in the evenings all we chatted about was how to get stockings and the latest village gossip.’
‘So what did you do exactly?’ The question fell out of Lucy’s mouth before she could stop herself. She felt her eyes widen as she realized that she’d probably pushed too far.
Bunty looked at her for a moment. ‘Well.’ She shifted her gaze to look out of the window. ‘We had to sign
the Official Secrets Act, you know.’
Lucy nodded.
‘And it was hard – jolly hard – to understand when all of a sudden people started talking. I mean – well, you must appreciate, we come from a different time.’
Lucy followed her eyes, looking out across the road and to the telephone box on the green. ‘There can’t have been much to do in a little village like this in the war, though?’
‘Gosh, tons. It wasn’t like nowadays, when everyone just sits inside gawping at television. There was a bus that took us into Bletchingham twice a week for dances and lectures, and there was always something on at the village hall.’
‘It sounds so much fun.’
‘Oh, it was hard work as well. But we didn’t have time to complain – we were either working, or dashing off to do something in the evenings. Milly used to meet me –’ she looked out of the window and smiled – ‘at the phone box, every night after she’d finished teaching. We’d have tea in the cafe in the next village.’
‘And you did all this while the blackout was going on?’
‘Oh yes. Summer was fine – we could get up to far more mischief, and it wasn’t cold. But winter – we used to take hot potatoes in our pockets to keep us warm when we cycled to dances, and we’d be so wrapped up that it would take ten minutes to take off all our layers when we got there. It was worth it, though. We used to have a wonderful time, especially when the airmen came for training at the airfield in Finmere. They were good fun. Put the cat among the pigeons.’
‘Were they stationed here permanently?’
‘No, it was a training unit. They’d be sent over here to learn how to fly bombers, do their bit, then that would be that.’
‘Did you see them in action?’
‘Did I see them?’ Bunty shook her head, smiling slightly. ‘Goodness. The skies were full – they used to fly so low sometimes that you could wave to the pilots.’
‘That sounds so romantic.’ Lucy sighed happily.
The Telephone Box Library Page 12