Marie put a finger to her lips. Like most people, she knew all the sounds belonging to her house, and could identify and explain the slightest creak. Her shoulders relaxed. ‘Getting her coat,’ she mouthed.
‘Now for chapter two,’ came Eileen’s quiet reply.
‘Onward Christian solders. I’ll put your cake in a box.’
Betty was a boon. She was as quiet as the grave, had been in service since leaving school, and seemed able to do the job of a gallon while furnished with just a pint. When asked about her excellent cooking, she replied by saying that she made it up as she went along. Except for Mr Collins’s meals. Mr Collins’s allocated points were pinned to the wall next to the oven, and they became known as Betty’s Bible.
Furthermore, she cared about ‘her’ family, even going so far as to travel to Bolton to collect tins of National Dried for Maisie, who had been drinking her mother dry. She took complete charge of the binding of Gill’s breasts with bandages and, when Gill was tempted to remove these supports, it was Betty who stepped in. Yes, the breasts were hard and sore, but Maisie was fine on powdered milk, and that was going to be an end to it. ‘Time you stopped feeling like a cow wanting milking. I’ve done this for my mother several times. You’ll get through it.’
This was when Gill discovered that quietly spoken words delivered by a taciturn person were more effective than shouted orders. Betty, a plump and rather unattractive female with a Midlands accent, meant business. Aware of her unappealing exterior, she empowered herself in domestic circumstances. Her whys and wherefores were of no importance; she was a godsend and a treasure.
Hilda Pickavance arrived. She had come to check on the progress of ‘her boy’ and was perplexed by his absence.
‘Where is he?’ she asked when the niceties were done.
‘Upstairs,’ Gill replied. ‘He’s doing a jigsaw, brand new, and getting his knickers in a twist because he says half the pieces are missing. Supposed to be relaxing. I think that word’s missing from his dictionary. He can’t rest. And he has to slow down for weeks.’
Hilda went upstairs to have a word or several with him. He was seated at a small table under a window. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Come here, please. Sky, bit of cloud on it, two blobs off-set, and two holes, also off-set.’
Thus the lady of the manor continued her war work. She knitted khaki scarves, which were easier than socks, was involved with the welfare of the Willows community and its evacuees, and did jigsaws with a diabetic young man.
The German boys were being questioned in Manchester. If they satisfied the authorities, they would be moved to Yorkshire. It seemed that several young men had ditched their planes, and they were said to be working happily and with minimal policing in farms all over England’s largest county. One or two of them were becoming friendly with the locals, and there were even tales of budding romance. Heinrich and Günter, too, were Hilda’s war work. Heinrich had arrived uninvited, had stayed for a short while as a dependant, and had left as a friend. It was a confusing life.
She smiled to herself. Never mind. It was Christmas. And she had found Jay’s delinquent piece of sky.
Spoodle became the bridge between the two girls. Gloria fell in love the moment she saw him, and she begged to use the phone long before sitting down to talk to Mel. She told her mother she wanted a spoodle, and that she could get the phone number of the poodle owner from Keith. So that was that. Instinct told Gloria that she could get what she wanted if she struck now.
They climbed the stairs and sat side by side on Mel’s bed. The visitor opened the batting. ‘I’m sorry, Mel.’
‘So am I.’
‘How can I mend what I did?’
Mel expressed the opinion that the mending might be fun. They could start a trend, but they needed to be careful of slander. ‘Then, when enough lies have been told, we do a gullibility chart.’
Gloria pondered before answering. ‘There’s him.’
‘Who?’
‘My brother, of course. Pete the perfect. He’ll be bragging about the things you actually did.’ She paused. ‘What did you actually do?’
Honesty was the only viable policy. ‘Everything but the deed.’
‘Everything?’
‘I think so, though there may be stuff I don’t know about.’
Gloria’s cheeks blazed like a lighthouse in the dark. ‘He’ll brag about that.’
Mel shook her head thoughtfully. ‘He won’t. Because I carry a certain knowledge, a confidence he would hate me to disclose. Don’t ask, Gloria, because I did make a promise.’
Mel closed her eyes for a few seconds, and he was crying like a baby wanting the breast. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I am,’ he sobbed. ‘I love you, Mel, but there’s something . . .’ He raised his head. ‘Sometimes I think I like boys.’ Mel had cried with him for what had seemed like hours. No matter what, Peter. No matter what, I’ll be here for you.
She opened her eyes and smiled at Gloria, who was in the here and now. ‘It’s enough for you to be sure I know something that could almost run him out of town. I can’t and won’t say anything more to you, but I am going to speak to Peter. This mess wants cleaning up before we go back to school.’
Gloria agreed. ‘But don’t forget to sew up my brother’s mouth.’
‘I won’t forget.’
‘Mel?’
‘What?’
‘Was it . . . nice?’
‘Yes.’ And no more was said. They fell back into friendship as if there had been no rift, and spent the rest of the day at Gloria’s house bullying Tom and Marie until Tom finally crumbled. ‘Get in the bloody car,’ he snapped. ‘I phoned. There’s one left. It’s female and will need to be neutered.’ When his daughter opened her mouth to tell him to make haste before someone else bought the animal, he held up a hand. ‘I’ve reserved the dog for two hours. And you can pick up after it, madam. I see enough of the mucky side of life without cleaning up after half a poodle.’
‘A half-poodle,’ his daughter said. ‘That is the correct term. It’s a whole dog.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ he mumbled between clenched teeth.
Thus it came to pass that Gloria Bingley acquired Pandora, sister to Spoodle. The girls removed the S, I, E and L from spaniel, and added Dora, who had been one of Gloria’s grandmothers. Pandora was reborn, and with her came the one item left after the opening of the box. In legend, Pandora hung on to hope. In reality, this puppy and her brother cemented a friendship that would last a lifetime.
* * *
My dear Miss Pickavance,
I think I’d rather like to be a journalist. Interviewing people is great; I seem to have the knack of getting them to talk. It’s important, because so many will become nothing more than statistics once the war ends. The recording of individual statements will make people from Civil Defence real.
Hilda glanced out at the near-dawn of Christmas Day. It was bone-chillingly cold, and stars still twinkled, so there would be no cloud cover for a while. If the evacuees wanted snow, it would not arrive until afternoon, she believed. The Bolton area was famous for heavy falls and drifts, and the Liverpool children were looking forward to a white-out.
For a few precious minutes, Hilda was enjoying solitude in the company of Mel’s letters. The girl wrote weekly, and was producing an intelligent young person’s view of a city at war. Together with her brother’s paintings, perhaps a package might be formed? ‘Stop it,’ she ordered herself sharply. ‘Let them walk first, and allow them to choose their own pace when running begins.’
Her name is Barbara Scott, though she prefers Babs. A casualty nurse, she has seen at close quarters some horrible things. One man arrived in an ambulance, most of him on a stretcher, the right lower leg a separate item poking out of a bucket. He’s doing well, thank goodness. The thing that upset Babs most was a blinded child whose whole family died. Babs’s sister is going to try to adopt the little blind girl.
Sometimes Hilda wished she could be there. Bu
t, as she was constantly reminded by Nellie, she had probably saved the lives of over twenty people by bringing them here, and she was managing to educate most of them. A chuckle rose unbidden from her throat. The thefts at Four Oaks had caused some tension, because Liverpool had invaded and was, by default, the whipping boy. The thief, when finally caught through a booby trap, had been a Willows youth. Scousers were no angels, but they were mainly decent. Let Willows put that in its pipe and smoke it.
Shock is a real illness. Some patients don’t start to shake until hours or even days after their experiences. They come in as black as coal; the only white bits are their eyes. Hundreds arrive at once and, in spite of sets of rules, the whole hospital is reduced to chaos, people spilling into wards and corridors and offices. They found a drunk in the women’s toilets. He was quite happy, but locked in for – well, goodness knows how long he was there. They had to break the door down. He was sitting guard over twelve bottles of single malt singing ‘Danny Boy’ and asking had anyone seen his Mary. His Mary is in Anfield Cemetery, but he wasn’t ready to accept, God love him.
Mel’s interviews made everything frighteningly real, because she focused on individuals and their anecdotes, helped them talk, shared their burdens, offered sympathy and, above all, listened. Yes, journalism was a possibility. This was last week’s letter.
The ARP currently has half a million members nationwide, but Churchill wants that number doubled. We may have won the Battle of Britain, but we are still very unsafe. America is our greatest hope; why won’t they come? Yes, I know some are here already, as are many from Canada, Australia, New Zealand and other Commonwealth countries, but we need America to become official. The unofficial Americans tend to be Air Force – they love planes and are technologically advanced, but their President is afraid of unpopularity.
Bob Garnet is ARP. He treated me to a cup of tea in a little hut and said I was a bit young to hear his stories. So I told him I am a Merchants girl working on a project, which is true in a sense. He said they all have an area to patrol, and that they know the people who live in the houses, so they can tell at a glance who’s missing or in a shelter. They dig and dig and bring out bits of people, trying to guess who’s who and what’s what. Sometimes organs end up in buckets and guesswork comes into play, but, as Bob said, there’s a war on.
It’s the children. He can’t carry a dead child without weeping , and he does it openly now, because he’s not the only one. The next worst thing, he says, is the smell of burning flesh. Well, you told me to be open and honest, didn’t you? Bob’s stomach is no longer strong , and his wife worries. They live in a place called Old Roan, somewhere on the way to Aintree.
Sighing, Hilda rose and walked to the window. Two typically angry robins were locked in mid-flight deadly combat. So much for the air force, she said inwardly. Cows had begun lowing in the Home Farm sheds. Cows didn’t have Christmas, unless one counted a few in Bethlehem’s famous stable. Their udders were full, and milking was required. This was just another ordinary day.
Bernie O’Hara got in the wrong queue. He was supposed to be volunteering as a messenger boy, but he found himself with a heavy helmet, leaden boots and a fireman’s uniform. He explained that he wasn’t quite fourteen, but he was told that these are desperate times, and he must get on with it. So he got on with it.
On his first watch, the bells ‘went down’. That’s what they say when the ringing starts. Poor Bernie found himself on a fire engine rattling its way to Millers Bridge. His description to me was, ‘The whole world was on fire, and the flames were really tall. I could see Heinkels in the sky.’
They rolled out hoses and fastened them to hydrants. A real fireman took the hose and made Bernie stand behind him. ‘Hold on,’ he ordered, ‘or we all die. There’s forty to sixty pounds of pressure coming through here in a minute. If we let go, it becomes a giant serpent and kills us all.’
That was just the first battle for Bernie, an ordinary schoolboy. The heat was terrific. They had to cool down other buildings, because brick crumbles at a certain temperature, and some places caught fire just because they overheated. His face was burning. He couldn’t touch it, because he had the hose. So he shuffled a bit, and some of the water came back at him. His uniform was steaming. It was wet through, but the flames heated it. Burning timber flew at him, crackling as it travelled. ‘I know hell now,’ he told me. At fourteen, at my age, he has already seen hell.
The rest of the message was amusing. Hilda found herself chuckling again, because Mel’s palette changed in the blink of an eye, and she used just primary colours when describing her nearest and dearest.
You could cut the atmosphere here with a blunt knife. They are SO in love, and they play all sorts of games. Keith pretends to be dominant, but he’s about as threatening as a high tide at Southport, which, in turn, is as rare as hen’s teeth. When he gets fed up with her misbehaviour, he sits her on the draining board and orders her to stay. They kiss all the time. She says kissing is his main hobby. He is a lovely man and I have started to call him Dad. That pleases him. He says he’s getting her a collar and lead tomorrow for Christmas, and a voucher for ten lessons at dog training school. I don’t think we’ll be having Christmas – it will be more like Kissmas.
Hilda chuckled; she’d been told about Spoodle via the telephone.
Miss Morrison does some pretend sleeping, but she’s really listening to the sounds of love’s young dream. Her level of deafness alters daily; if there’s something interesting going on, she hears it. I spend time with her every day. People her age are like living history books, so valuable. She says she’s staying alive until Hitler’s dead and disposed of and she’s seen television. Nothing would surprise me where Miss Morrison’s concerned. Sometimes I wonder what really went on with that caretaker in the cellar!
Hilda placed the pages with all the others in a drawer. It was Christmas, and there was much to do. Her protégés, spread as they were around farms and cottages, would each receive a stocking from her. This house would be packed to the gills, since Jay, Gill and Maisie were expected, as were Neil, Jean and their daughters. The Land Army girls had all managed to get home for a few days, and that was a relief, or lunchers would have spilled onto the stairs. So it was to be a meal for twelve, though Nellie insisted that she had it all in hand. Thank goodness they lived in the country and kept poultry.
Elsie was expected for afternoon tea, as were Freda Pilkington and her offspring, but the lunch guests would have left by then. As she combed her hair, Hilda Pickavance found herself smiling at the ageing figure in the glass. She was no longer lonely; she had a family at last.
‘Well, this is a good start, I must say.’ Keith joined the weeping Mel on the sofa. ‘Happy Christmas. It’s all going very well so far. Your mother’s in the bath, says she’s staying there till New Year because I bought her some bubbles. Miss Morrison’s had her breakfast courtesy of me, but she said her toast was overdone, and now you’re carrying on all sad. Come on. Tell your stepdad what’s up.’
Mel pushed documents into his hand. ‘It’s too much,’ she wailed.
Keith looked at the bank book and covering letter, explaining that too much was fine in his opinion. ‘Your mam and I got you clothes – good ones, but second-hand. So this too-much present evens things out a bit.’
‘I could buy three houses with that, Dad.’
‘I wouldn’t bother, love. Some soft bugger keeps knocking them down or setting light to them.’ Dad. This gorgeous girl was his daughter. ‘Miss Pickavance loves you, baby. That money will see you through university, because brains are all very well, but they need food, shelter and transport. You’re safe now.’
She grinned. ‘Unless I get bombed.’
Like her mother, Mel was a rainbow when she cried and smiled simultaneously. ‘Get a crowbar, sweetheart, and prise your mam out of that bathroom.’
But no such measure was required, because chaos erupted. Not one but two spoodles shot through the room like bulle
ts from a gun. ‘Did I imagine that?’ Mel asked. ‘Two nutters merged into one?’
He nodded. ‘A ball with eight legs. It rolled that-a-way.’
They sat and listened as the two pups bounded upstairs. They could go up, but they couldn’t come down. ‘That’ll shift your mam,’ predicted Keith as Gloria walked in.
‘Happy Christmas,’ the visitor said grimly. ‘My dad wants a divorce from Pandora, says two daft women in the house are enough, and he and Peter are now outnumbered. They’re crying.’
‘Tom and Peter?’ Keith asked innocently.
‘Spoodle and Pandora.’ Mel dried her eyes. ‘They can’t get down,’ she advised her best friend.
‘We know,’ was Gloria’s reply. ‘We found that out at three o’clock this morning. She’s eaten a doormat and a draught excluder. Yours has started on a leg of the kitchen table.’
‘We know,’ they chorused.
‘You little buggers,’ came a voice from on high. ‘Keith? They’ve got my towel.’
‘You know what?’ Keith rose to his feet. ‘I’m beginning to sympathize with that poodle woman. We are paying for the spaniel’s bad behaviour.’
All three walked upstairs. Eileen, stark naked and laughing, was pulling a large towel to which were attached two pups. She looked at the three new arrivals. ‘You took your time.’
Dumbstruck, Keith noticed the swelling. That was his and hers, a daughter or son in a beautiful container. While the girls retrieved the towel, he simply gazed into his wife’s eyes. He could not remember happiness as intense as this.
Eileen covered herself. ‘Drown them,’ she ordered before retreating to her bedroom. Keith followed, locking the door behind him. She was seated on the bed, a huge pair of scissors in one hand. ‘Why do you have a murder weapon in your bedside cupboard?’ she asked.
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