Peggy's Letters

by Jacqueline Halsey

  “Cootchie cootchie coo, little baby,” he says in a squeaky, posh-lady voice. I start giggling. He looks so silly.

  “You’re daft.”

  Spud starts running with the pram, zigzagging on two wheels round everything in sight while making airplane noises. I fly along beside him.

  “You’re not daft; you’re crazy.”

  Suddenly Spud spins the pram on its back wheels and screeches to a halt in front of a recently bombed house. Wisps of smoke are still rising from the ashes.

  “Here we are,” he says, abandoning the pram and me and taking off over a mountain of rubble.

  I feel like I’ve turned into a statue.

  “This is my house,” I say in a croaky whisper.

  Through a teary blur, I look at the black soggy wreck. Our home is just another bomb site. Spud turns and points to a large triangle of metal sticking out of the remaining wall.

  “Look,” he calls, his eyes gleaming. “It’s part of the tail fin of a V1 bomb.”

  “I don’t want to look,” I shout up at him. “This isn’t a stupid game. This is my home.” Spud turns back to his “find” and starts un-burying it before I’ve even finished talking. I swing the pram round, nearly knocking Mum off the pavement.

  “Mum!”

  4

  “Peggy! What’s happened? Where’s Tommy?” Mum’s voice is almost a scream. “Where is he?”

  “Nothing’s happened. Tommy’s back at the hall. Oh, Mum, look at our house.” I burst into tears.

  Mum stops being angry and wraps me in her arms. “Poor house,” she says softly.

  She undoes her hug and pulls out a handkerchief. “Now dry those tears and have a blow. You were supposed to stay in the hall and look after Tommy.”

  “I only meant to go out for a minute. Just to get some air. I didn’t know I was coming here.” Tears pour out of my eyes.

  “There, there, that’s enough crying.”

  “But I cccccan’t stoppppp,” I say through hiccupy sobs. “I might have to crrry forever.” “I know,” says Mum, hugging me again. “I feel like that too sometimes.”

  As we turn back toward St. Marks, the ginger cat appears from behind a pile of broken bricks and purrs round my ankles. I scratch him behind his ears. “Glad you’re safe, Puss.”

  “Come on. Let’s get back to Tommy,” says Mum.

  I’m wheeling the pram, but her arm is still round my shoulders.

  “What I don’t understand is why you brought the pram with you in the first place,” she says as we walk along.

  “That boy wanted to borrow it,” I explain, turning to point at Spud who has been joined by several other boys. He’s so busy digging in the rubble he doesn’t notice us leaving. “He thinks our house is a playground. We must stop him, Mum.”

  “No,” says Mum. “It’s time for us to think about what we’re going to do next. I’ve been to see Grandad. He says we can stay with him for a while.”

  “Stay at Grandad’s!” My memory of Grandad is a tall grumpy man in a black suit. “I don’t think he likes us.”

  “Of course he likes you.”

  “Then why doesn’t he ever come and see us?”

  “I don’t know. Dad’s his only son, but they never got on very well. I think he feels sad about that now.”

  “But if we live at Grandad’s, I’ll have to change schools. I won’t see Nora.”

  A familiar yell pierces the air. We park the pram and race up the church hall steps.

  “Oh, there you are,” calls Maud. She’s holding a red-faced, wriggling, screaming Tommy. They both look very cross.

  Tommy leaps into my arms.

  “Sorry about this,” says Mum. “There was a bit of a misunderstanding.”

  While Maud goes on and on about how irresponsible it was to leave without telling her, I take Tommy back to our corner.

  Mum joins us a few minutes later. “Let’s get our things together,” she says.

  There’s not much to get together, just Tommy’s damp clothes.

  “Oh dear,” says Mum, “Look at you two. Tommy’s practically naked, and you look like you’ve been through a hedge backward. What will Grandad think if he sees you like this?”

  I try smoothing the creases out of my crumpled dress, but it doesn’t look much different.

  Mum rummages in her handbag and pulls out a comb. “We can’t do anything about our clothes, but I can do something with your hair.”

  It hurts to have the tangles combed out, but I like having Mum do my hair. It feels so normal. She braids two plaits and looks at her handiwork.

  “You’ll do,” she says with a smile. “Now go and wash your face.”

  On my way back to Mum, Maud stops me. She seems to have got over her Tommy experience. A smile is back on her face, and a large brown paper bag is in her hands.

  “I managed to scrounge up a few nappies and some baby things,” she says. “Give these to your mum.

  “Maud, you’re a lifesaver,” calls Mum, when she sees the contents of the bag. “This will tide us over nicely.”

  Together, we change Tommy’s nappy and squeeze him into a romper suit, a size too small, and button on a cardigan, two sizes too big.

  I twirl him round. “You look smashing, Tommy. Doesn’t he, Mum?”

  Tommy claps. Mum just shakes her head and tries to roll up his sleeves. “At least it’s better than a coat and a nappy.” She picks up the bag. “Time we made a move.”

  “Thanks for all your help, Maud,” calls Mum opening the door. She stops.

  “There’s just one last thing.”

  “Yes, my dear.”

  “Do you know anyone who could use a pram? We won’t have any room where we’re going.”

  “No,” I shout. “We’re not leaving the pram.”

  “Look at it, Peggy. The wheels are wobbly, and all the metal bits are rusty. Anyway, Tommy’s nearly grown out of it.

  “But it’s all we have left.”

  Mum sighs and the pram comes with us.

  5

  We take the train to Grandad’s even though it’s only two stops. Tommy loves trains, and the pram is able to go in the guard’s van.

  “Chuff chuff…whooo whooo,” sings Tommy as we walk up from the station. No one says “hello” to me, and the only cat we pass scoots away into the bushes.

  “Here we are,” says Mum. “Railway Lane.” We turn into a long street of narrow, joined-together houses. They all look exactly the same.

  “Grandad’s is number eighty-nine,” says Mum.

  I count off the house numbers in twos. Our steps seem to slow as we reach the eighties.

  “Eighty-five, eighty-seven. Here it is eighty-nine.”

  This is my new home. The paintwork is gray and so are the bricks. Dingy lace curtains droop across the windows. It doesn’t feel like home.

  The sun has gone in, and a gust of wind whips my skirt hem up over my bare knees.

  “Go on, Peggy, knock on the door. It’s too cold to be hanging around outside.”

  I knock, and we wait. Perhaps he’s not in, I think hopefully.

  Grandad opens the door. He’s smaller than I remembered, and his hair is whiter. An old beige cardigan hangs loosely off his stooped shoulders. It reminds me of Tommy in his outfit. I want to reach over and roll up Grandad’s sleeves.

  “Hello, Grandad.”

  Grandad doesn’t smile as he grunts back a hello.

  “Say hello to Grandad, Tommy.” Tommy ducks round the back of me and clutches my legs so I can’t move. I know how he feels. I want to hide too.

  “You’d best come in,” says Grandad. Mum always says his bark is worse than his bite, and that is just how he sounds, like a grumpy old dog.

  “What shall I do with the pram?” I whisper to Mum.

  “Leave the blessed thing outside,” she whispers back crossly. Then she turns to Grandad. “It’s really good of you to put us up like this.” She gives him a peck on the cheek.

  Grandad growls aga
in and mumbles something about duty and there being a war on.

  “We’ll take our coats upstairs. Then shall I put the kettle on, and make us all a nice cup of tea?” asks Mum in her too cheery voice.

  “Haven’t got much milk. Hope you’ve brought your rations books,” is Grandad’s reply.

  I climb the narrow stairs with Tommy still glued to my leg.

  A large bed, a narrow bed and a dressing table with a cracked mirror are all squeezed into the front bedroom. On the wall a cross-stitched sampler declares Home Is Where the Heart Is. Where is my heart?

  “I’ll sleep with Tommy,” says Mum. “You take the little bed under the window.”

  I have to climb over the big bed to reach my bed. I plonk down on it. The bed has no bounce. Tommy thinks climbing from one bed to the other is the best game ever.

  “Tommy’s not going to like it here,” I say, pulling him on to my lap. He wriggles free and leaps back on to Mum’s bed.

  Mum looks at me. Her eyes are serious, and her lips are thin and tight. She lowers her voice.

  “Peggy, we’ve nowhere else to go. If Grandad won’t have us, I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

  I didn’t realize that this was only a maybe home.

  “We’re all going to have to try very hard to make this work. So I want you to be on your best behavior. Don’t race around, and don’t touch anything. Try and be quiet…”

  Mum’s list of don’ts goes on and on.

  “And most important of all,” says Mum. “Please help me watch Tommy. He’s at a very busy stage.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good girl, let’s go and put that kettle on.” She catches Tommy. “Come on, young man. It’s time you made friends with your grandfather.”

  “I’ll be down in a minute, Mum.” I take my notebook out of my coat pocket. I have to write to Dad.

  Dear Dad

  It’s so scary not belonging anywhere.

  I can tell by Grandad’s face that he doesn’t want us to stay here for long. But if he turns us out, where will we go? Not back to Maud and the horrid church hall, I hope. I wish you were here. You’d work something out. I know you would.

  Love Peggy

  6

  Grandad is sitting in the armchair lighting his pipe when I come into the room. I sit on the edge of my chair watching the blue circles of smoke curl up to the ceiling. The silence is louder than the tick of the mantelpiece clock.

  A train goes by. Tommy scurries into the room and runs over to the window making chuffa chuffa noises.

  Is this too much noise? I wonder. Should I make him be quiet? I look over at Grandad.

  He takes his pipe out of his mouth. “I used to like trains when I was a boy,” he says. “Just a blinkin’ noisy nuisance now.” He puffs more stinky smoke into the room.

  Mum comes in with the tea. While we sip, Tommy takes off his shoe and chuffs it over the rug and under the table. His shoe-train is heading for Grandad’s feet. I hold my breath. What’s Grandad going to do?

  At the last moment Tommy’s train changes direction and chuffs round the back of Grandad’s chair. My breath comes out in a great woosh.

  Mum chatters, Grandad grunts, Tommy chuffs and I sit. The afternoon is as long as a wet week of Sundays, as my old teacher used to say.

  At last the clock chimes five. Grandad levers himself out of his chair and limps over to the window. He pulls the blackout curtains across.

  “Haven’t much for tea,” he mumbles.

  My stomach is growling. I often feel hungry these days, and today we missed lunch. I jump up. “We’ve got sausages. They’re in the bottom of the pram.”

  “Sausages!” says Grandad.

  “I’d forgotten all about them,” says Mum.

  “There are some potatoes in the cellar,” says Grandad. “And I can cut us a cabbage from the garden.”

  “Bubble and Squeak and sausages. Yum!”

  Soon the sausages are sizzling under the grill, and the potatoes and cabbage, mushed up into a hash, are turning golden-brown in the frying pan. The kitchen smells delicious. Grandad gets the plates, and Mum has just finished serving up when the air-raid siren starts whining.

  A cold shiver runs up my back. Please not this house too. I remember my chant. Don’t fall on us today. Don’t fall on us today, but the words have lost their magic.

  “Move girl. This way. Quick.”

  I suddenly realize that Grandad is talking to me.

  “Quick,” he says again. His forehead is creased into a worried frown, and I see why. His air-raid shelter is a narrow bed in a reinforced cupboard under the stairs. It’s made for one person.

  “We can all fit in if we squish up really tight,” I say picking up Tommy.

  “I’ll stay out,” says Grandad.

  “No, look. Tommy, we’re going to play sardines under the stairs. That means we have to squeeze in tight. Like this.” I give him a bear hug. “Bubble, bubble, bubble.” I carry him over to the cupboard and push him under the slanty part.

  “Bub, bub, bub,” says Tommy.

  “Tommy, you’re the best sardine I’ve ever seen.” I slide in next to him. The ceiling is so low that I have to sit with my head on one side. Mum squishes up next to me, and there’s just enough room for Grandad on the end.

  “There, we all fit,” says Mum.

  My ears strain to catch the first drone of bomber planes or the sound of the ack-ack guns, but all I can hear is our breathing. The smell of sausages drifts into the under-the-stairs shelter. Our food is getting cold.

  Is there time?

  “Stay here, Tommy.”

  I duck out of the cupboard and make a dash for the kitchen.

  “Come back,” calls Mum

  “What do you think you’re doing, girl? Get under the stairs!” yells Grandad.

  I pick up two plates of dinner and carry them as fast and as carefully as I can back to Grandad and Mum.

  Mum cheers, and Tommy claps his hands.

  “Good for you, girl,” says Grandad.

  I race back for my plate and Tommy’s dish

  “We have sausages for tea, and it’s going to take more than Mr. Hitler and his blinkin’ bombs to stop us eating them,” says Grandad.

  I squeeze back into my space. Mum hands me a spoon so that I can feed Tommy. This is going to be messy.

  Moments later the single note of the all-clear sounds. It was a false alarm.

  Grandad moves to stand up. It’s hard for him with his bad hip, but I don’t think he’d like me giving him a boost.

  “Tommy and I are going to finish our picnic here,” I declare.

  “Me too,” says Mum.

  “Well, I’d better stay as well,” says Grandad leaning back against the wall.

  When he smiles, he looks like Dad.

  “If you think about it, those sausages saved your lives,” he says.

  “Saved by a sausage,” I announce with a giggle. Mum joins in. I feel cozy and safe. Maybe it’s not going to be so bad living here after all.

  Dear Dad

  Mum said my under-the-stairs sausage picnic broke the ice, but I’m not sure. We’ve been at Grandad’s for two weeks, and I can’t seem to do anything without Grandad grumbling and Mum fussing.

  Yesterday Mum picked up our utility coupons. We now have extra points to replace the clothes we lost. She thought we’d get the best deal down the market. So we spent a lovely morning looking at all the stalls. I now have a navy gymslip, a gray blouse and cardigan, two nighties and some underwear. Mum found herself a new dress. She looks really pretty in it. I still feel like a visitor. Being good is awfully hard work.

  Tomorrow I start my new school. I wish Nora was coming with me.

  Love Peggy

  7

  Mum finishes filling in the form and hands it back to Mrs. Mashman, the headmistress.

  “We’d better go now,” Mum says to me.

  I’m hugging Tommy tight. I want them both to stay. Mum holds out her arms
, and Tommy jumps into them. Babies are so lucky.

  “See you this afternoon,” I say in a small voice. “Bye, Tommy. Bye, Mum.”

  “Bye, luv.”

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Fisher,” says the headmistress firmly.

  Mum turns toward the door, and Mrs. Mashman turns toward me. Her beady eyes peer at me through thick round glasses.

  “Follow me, Peggy Fisher. Your classroom is this way.” She marches out of the office.

  Through the window, I can see Mum and Tommy walking across the playground. I wave, but they have their backs to me so they don’t wave back.

  “Come along,” calls Mrs. Mashman. “We haven’t got all day.”

  I follow her down a long corridor to a noisy classroom. Mrs. Mashman flings open the door. There’s instant silence.

  “What is going on, Mrs. Bottomly?” she booms.

  Mrs. Bottomly is a little old lady with snowy curls and bright pink cheeks.

  “Everything is, is fine, Mrs. Mashman,” she stammers. “Just some high spirits in class today.”

  The headmistress glares at both the class and the teacher. “Save your high spirits for the playground. This is Peggy Fisher, your new pupil.”

  I can feel the room staring at my mousy plaits, my snubby nose, my skinny legs and my uniform, which isn’t quite the same as everyone else’s. I want to crawl under Mrs. Bottomly’s desk.

  The headmistress turns on her heels and leaves the room. I stand frozen to the spot listening to her footsteps echoing down the corridor. Nora would have said something funny and the whole class would have instantly laughed and loved her. I just stand there looking at my shoes.

  “Hang your coat and gas mask on the hook and sit next to Annie,” says my new teacher, pointing to an empty desk. “Perhaps Annie can show you around at recess.”

  Annie is older than me and hardly gives me a glance before turning back to her friend. The classroom is getting noisy again.

  “Settle down children,” says Mrs. Bottomly, fluttering her hands. “Lets get out our math books….No, stop that….Quiet now.” Her pink cheeks get even pinker.