A Place to Hang the Moon

by Kate Albus

  “What would she do?” Edmund asked.

  William thought Edmund made a fair point. Mrs. Griffith was unlikely to offer much in the way of comfort. “Let’s just try and sleep, all right?” He tucked Anna back under her blanket and grabbed her hand again as they lay listening to the distant thundering.

  Edmund stayed at the window for a long time, squinting at the beautiful, awful glow.

  Mrs. Griffith didn’t have a radio, so it wasn’t until school the next morning that William’s guess about the bombing was confirmed.

  “Coventry.” Miss Carr’s face was gray. “I don’t know details, but I gather it was bad.”

  “Coventry’s only a few miles away,” Frances said.

  Miss Carr corrected her. “Twenty-five miles away, actually.”

  “But that’s still really close,” Frances said. “If the Jerries had missed, they could have hit us.” Several of the smaller children looked close to tears.

  “Twenty-five miles is really quite a long way, Frances,” Miss Carr said, determined that the class not go down a rabbit hole of terror just now.

  Alfie raised his hand. “It’s not that far, Miss Carr. At my gran’s, I rode almost that far on a bicycle once. Twenty-five miles would be easy for the Jerries to miss.”

  “That’s enough, children,” Miss Carr said, though her tone held little of its usual hardness. “We’re really quite safe here.”

  Alfie raised his hand again. “Did they hit the cinema?” The students all thought of their lovely Pinocchio outing. It seemed such a long time ago.

  Miss Carr sighed. “I’ve no idea, Alfred. And I should think there are more important things to worry about than the cinema.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like…factories, churches, people’s homes, for heaven’s sake.”

  “My mum says the cinema is important for keeping up morals.”

  “I think you mean keeping up morale, Alfred.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Morals means a sense of right and wrong. Morale means a positive spirit.”

  Alfie only shrugged. Just now, none of the children were able to conjure much in the way of positive spirit.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  At breakfast the following Saturday, Mrs. Griffith gave the children their marching orders for the day. She asked Anna to mind the girls while she did the shopping, then turned to the boys. “You’ll be helping with the ratting today, hear?”

  Edmund and William glanced at each other.

  “What’s that?” Edmund asked.

  “Big farm just outside town needs its rats exterminated once or twice a year. Ratcatcher’ll pay for each tail, and we need the money.”

  Edmund considered the logistics of this. “How do we do it?”

  “Farmer’ll show you when you get there. Other boys from town go. My Bob always went before the war. Easy money.”

  “How do we get there?” Edmund asked insistently.

  “You walk. Past the square, there’s a road that leads south out of town. Hanover Street, it is, but they may have taken the signs down ’cause of the Jerries. The farms are strung along that road a couple of miles south. Like I said, boys from town go, so you’ll fall in with some who’ll show you how to get there. No dillydallying, though. They get started by midmorning.” With that, she went upstairs to tend to the baby.

  “I’m not sure I fancy being left alone,” Anna whispered as William set to washing the porridge bowls.

  Edmund crossed his arms. “I’m not sure I fancy ratting.”

  “I don’t see as any of us has much of a choice,” William said, setting down the rag he was using. “And you won’t be alone, Anna. You’ll have the girls with you.”

  “But I’m only nine. That’s not old enough.”

  Truth be told, William was none too glad of his own assignment, which made it difficult to sympathize with his sister. “Just spend the day reading them stories. And be glad you’re not murdering rats.”

  With that, the boys said a wide-eyed goodbye. They headed toward the square, pulling their coats tight against the chill. As Mrs. Griffith had predicted, they saw two boys ahead, one carrying a board and the other a piece of a thickish tree branch. Edmund and William ran to catch up and found that one of the boys was Alfie. He was with his foster brother from his billet—a plump and good-natured boy named Ernest.

  Ernest reassured them that he knew all about ratting. “I’ve done this loads of times,” he said. “Well…twice.”

  “How do you do it, then?” Edmund asked.

  “They block up all the ratholes but two, turn a hose down one, and wait for the rats to come out the other.”

  “And then what?” Alfie asked, rapt.

  Ernest shrugged. “We beat ’em.”

  The farm was impossible to miss. Several long cowsheds and some smaller outbuildings—Ernest said they were pigsties—were visible from the road, and as they made the turn into the farm they saw other boys their age, presumably there for the ratting as well. Dogs trotted in and out of the crowd. A handful of older men—too old to be fighting in the war, the boys guessed—milled about with pails and shovels, checking that holes had been adequately filled.

  One of the men approached Edmund and William and their schoolmates. He wiped sweat from his brow, despite the November chill. “Have you boys brought clubs or sticks or the like?” The other boys displayed theirs, while Edmund and William shook their heads. The man directed them to a barn, where spent floorboards were piled in a corner. Edmund selected a board, then looked at William.

  “Ever think we’d be doing something like this?” His eyes were lit with the glow of excitement reflected on fear.

  William said nothing, only shook his head slowly. His heart was pounding, and he felt a bit sick to his stomach.

  One of the men appeared from behind the barn, unfurling a ragged hose. He put the nozzle end into the ground near the barn door, as if plugging a lamp into a socket.

  “Does everyone know what to do, boys?”

  Of course we don’t, William thought. He hadn’t got anywhere near R in the Britannica, but he was certain it offered no advice on RAT(ting).

  The gaggle of boys nodded. A sort of electric hum made its way through their midst as the anticipation peaked. One of the dogs let out a whine, twitching in eagerness at what he seemed to know was coming.

  “Mind you don’t cudgel each other in a mad dash to catch the buggers, lads,” the man advised. The boys looked at each other, judging safe distances as they raised their weapons to their shoulders.

  William bit his lower lip. Edmund closed his eyes, breathless. The thought occurred to both boys to simply hang back and let the others do the ratting, but they feared the punishment they might face should they return to Mrs. Griffith empty-handed.

  “Right!” the farmer shouted, giving a sign to whoever was manning the hose bib at the back of the barn.

  “On three, then, lads. Ready?”

  No, Edmund and William thought.

  “ONE! TWO! THREE!”

  Nothing.

  For at least a minute, the only sound the boys could hear was the frenzy in their own ears. The noises of the farm—the breeze through the apple orchard, the lowing of the cows in their sheds—were eclipsed by the pulsing heartbeat of fearful anticipation. Standing there, William and Edmund had the same succession of thoughts. Perhaps the hose didn’t work. Perhaps there are no rats after all. Perhaps they’ve forgotten some of the holes and the vermin are just now escaping to the fields beyond.

  It was then that the first rat emerged. It nearly flew out of the hole, then froze on the spot. The boys thought they could see terror in its beady eyes. For a moment, neither rat nor ratters stirred, only stared at each other. But when the creature at last made a move, the spell was broken and one of the bigger boys came down on it with an old cricket bat.

  Even above the earthy thud of bat hitting ground, the sound of the animal’s death was unmistakable. Edmund and Wi
lliam heard the sickening crack of the rat’s body being broken in pieces by the direct hit from the boy’s bat, and both took a step back, lowering their weapons in horror as the reality of the ratting became all too vivid.

  There was no time, however, to mourn the hapless creature, as now more rats began to pour from the hole in the ground, their shrieks filling the boys’ ears. All around them, ratters sprang into action, swinging at the panicked vermin with whatever implements they had. Many missed their marks, sending animals scattering this way and that, only to be pursued by other boys. The dogs seemed built for the task, snatching their victims and giving them a single whiplike shake, breaking their necks in one efficient and deadly maneuver, then dropping them to the ground.

  William and Edmund watched, their breath stuck in their throats, as the boys around them brought one rat after another to its grisly death. Alfie appeared similarly paralyzed. Ernest had killed one already. Raising his weapon to seek his next kill, he caught sight of William and Edmund. His eyes were unfocused and wild.

  “Come on, then, you two! What are you doing?” he shouted.

  William looked at his brother, mute and still as the chaos swirled about them. His eyes shining with hot tears, William grabbed Edmund by the arm. “You don’t have to do this, Ed. I’ll get two and we’ll have done with it. We’ll bring the money to Mrs. Griffith and we won’t need to think about this ever again. You don’t have to kill anything.”

  Never had Edmund wanted so desperately to let his older brother be his older brother, to relieve him of the responsibility of taking a creature’s life in such a gruesome manner. He set his jaw and inhaled deeply. “I can do it,” he whispered. “We stick together.” The boys stared at each other for a long moment, then turned and set to work.

  A huge rat, just missed by one of the other boys, saw an escape route between Edmund and William. Edmund swung, missing the moving target by nearly a yard. The rodent swerved toward William, who raised his plank, squeezed his eyes shut, and brought it down.

  Even without looking, he knew he had found his mark. The crunch of the rat’s body rang in his ears, and he heaved deep breaths to keep from being sick as he opened his eyes to find the creature’s ruined body twitching at his feet. William looked up at his brother, his eyes flooded.

  Edmund couldn’t look away from William’s victim, which gave another rat the opportunity to skirt by him. Blinded now by tears, William swung at the creature, hitting only its tail. This was enough to send the thing skittering back toward Edmund, who raised his own plank and brought it down with a thwack, missing again. Swiping at his eyes with one sleeve, William swung at the animal a second time and hit it squarely. The writhing creature joined its fellow at the boys’ feet, and William promptly turned and heaved the contents of his stomach into the dirt behind them. He grabbed his knees and gulped for air. “Enough,” he rasped. “That’s enough. No more.”

  Edmund took a trembling breath and bent over his brother. “It’s all right, Will. It’s all right.”

  The boys stayed doubled over as the pandemonium began to subside. Some of the boys around them were similarly dismayed. One or two had been sick like William. A handful of others seemed in their element, on fire with bloodlust. Edmund thought briefly that the battle in this field must not be too different from those in other places, other fields, far away from this one.

  William swiped at his streaming nose. “Not a word to Anna.”

  “No,” Edmund whispered, hugging his own arms as a chill made its way through his sweat-soaked shirt.

  The boys collected sixpence from the ratcatcher and left the farm. Neither was keen to relive the morning’s events with Ernest and Alfie. They trudged back to town in silence.

  It was only when the steeple of the church became visible over the crest of the hill that Edmund spoke. “I could have done it, you know. I tried. I just…missed.”

  William didn’t look up. “I know, Ed. It’s all right. I’m glad you didn’t hit any. Nobody should have to do such a thing.”

  There was a long silence before Edmund spoke again. “Thanks.”

  “I told you, you didn’t have to.”

  “I know you did, and I just…thanks.”

  “It’s all right,” William said, fresh tears threatening.

  “Honest. Thanks. Not just for today, but…I don’t know…for everything. For taking care of us, me and Anna.”

  William sniffled. “It’s all right,” he said again.

  Edmund dug his fists into the pockets of his coat. “Do you think we’ll ever find a proper grown-up, so you don’t have to anymore?”

  “Not exactly lining up for us, are they, the proper ones?” William’s voice was bathed in a tiredness that came from the deepest part of him.

  Edmund gave a bleak chuckle. “Maybe we should ask that farmer. Now you’ve proven yourself a champion rat murderer, I’ll bet he’d think himself lucky to have us.”

  William managed a half smile. “Let’s just hope we can ride things out till the war’s over, and then we’ll sort out what to do.”

  “Sixpence?” Mrs. Griffith fairly shrieked when the boys deposited their earnings on the kitchen table. “Where’s the rest of it?”

  Edmund glanced at William, waiting for him to respond. He didn’t.

  “This is all of it,” Edmund said.

  “That can’t be all of it—what’s that, one rat apiece?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Gone half the day, for one rat apiece?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Turn out your pockets,” Mrs. Griffith hissed.

  “What?” Edmund looked at William, who still said nothing. Anna watched the volley from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Turn out your pockets. Squirreling the rest of it away, are you?”

  “We didn’t take anything! This was all we got!” Edmund’s rage was mounting now, his voice growing louder with each word.

  “Did you spend some on the way home? Stop for sweets?”

  By now Edmund was nearly shouting. “This is all we got!”

  “What were the two of you doing the whole time? Larking about?”

  Edmund stole a glance at William, who only swiped at his nose. “No, ma’am,” Edmund said, trying to lower his voice. “We both tried…it was just…hard.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s hard,” Mrs. Griffith said. “Feeding six children plus a baby on no money. That’s what’s hard.” She paused but got no reply. “Get upstairs, the lot of you, and don’t come down again till I tell you.”

  Edmund and William were mostly glad to be banished, though both felt fairly desperate to wash their hands of the sticky film of death. This seemed not the moment to ask for such favors, however, and the boys wasted no time in clambering up the stairs. Anna followed behind them.

  “Was it awful?” she asked, once the bedroom door was closed. “Was it as dreadful as I’m imagining it to be?”

  “William did all the work,” Edmund said.

  “I couldn’t even think of doing such a thing,” Anna continued. “Not that I care for rats, mind you, but to think of killing one…” She gave a little shudder. “Did you just hit them over the head?”

  Edmund glanced at William. He was beginning to feel alarmed, now, at his brother’s silence. “Yes.”

  “And you had to watch their insides come out, and—”

  “Stop it, Anna,” Edmund said.

  “I just—”

  “Stop it, Anna. I mean it.”

  The three sat in tense silence for a long while before Anna piped up again. “Do you think she’s going to let us come down for supper? I’m hungry.”

  “I’m hungry, too,” Edmund sighed. “But I think I’m more tired than hungry.”

  Anna brightened. “Do you want to read to us, William? Take your mind off things?”

  William spoke at last. “I don’t feel much like reading, Anna. Sorry.”

  “I’ll do it,” Edmund said.

  Anna and Willia
m stared at their brother.

  “Really. Will’s done enough.” Edmund rummaged through his things and retrieved Five Children and It.

  William watched as Edmund opened the book, studying his brother like a person he had only just met.

  By now the weather had gone well and truly cold. The trees ringing the village square were bare, the dry click of their branches heralding the approaching winter. Leaves gathered in doorways. The air was scented with earth and clove.

  Meals at Mrs. Griffith’s being what they were, the children were beginning to grow accustomed to the gnaw of hunger in their bellies. None of them had been especially choosy eaters to begin with, but now they found they would inhale anything put before them. When mealtimes were over, they would run their tongues round the rims of their plates and bowls, knowing this was terribly rude, but—needs must, as they say.

  One afternoon at the end of November, the children sat by the fire in the library reading room, losing themselves in their latest selections. Mrs. Müller sat at the lending desk, engaged in her knitting. All in all, it made quite a cozy picture.

  Edmund was reading The Wind in the Willows. He had been initially opposed to it, as Anna had recently finished it, and he hated to follow his younger sister—or anyone, come to that—in anything. Mrs. Müller had convinced him to try it, however, and Edmund was thoroughly enjoying Toad’s misadventures. At present, the creature had been tossed into prison for stealing a motorcar. Reading the bit where the jailer’s daughter appears with tea…hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in it in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb…Edmund found himself nearly drooling on the very page. There came a grumbling from his stomach that could have been heard all the way in the biography section.

  “Such noise in a library!” Mrs. Müller raised her eyebrows in jest, then studied the children for a long moment. Her voice went softer. “You three look a bit peaky. Is there enough to go round at your billet?”

  The children were caught out by the directness of the question. Each silently considered telling her the truth, but it seemed somehow shameful to admit their hunger.