Four
When I woke, the hands of the alarm clock pointed to half past ten. I scrambled out of bed, threw on my uniform and hurried out of the room. I found myself in a hallway with five doors facing a staircase with a polished wooden banister curving out of sight. I stood at the top of it for a moment, gathering my courage, then began to creep down the stairs, staying close to the wall.
The only pretty thing in our Bethnal Green rooms was a white china pitcher painted with pink flowers. It had been a wedding present, Ma said, and the one thing she couldn’t bear to sell when Pa died. In this house, which I remembered from the previous day was not called a house but a rectory, everything was beautiful. I looked about in wonder. The sun was shining through a window halfway down the stairs, throwing light onto a painting of a woman holding a baby. The painting was old and the woman looked sad. She seemed to be staring at something outside the picture, something far away that she would never be able to reach because she was trapped in her painted world. She made me think of Ma and I was suddenly sad as well. I caught sight of Mrs Rivers’ Virgin Mary coat, hanging in a row of other coats by a door, and I ran down the stairs. If I could just touch it, I thought, I would feel better. But as I reached towards it, a chiming noise rang out like a warning. I jumped in shock. A second chime rang out and I looked around to see where it had come from. Behind me was a tall grandfather clock. I stood, trembling, wondering what to do. I could make a bolt for it, I supposed, run out of the door and back to London and Ma. But I knew that I wouldn’t get far. The only other thing to do was to stay and wait to be found by someone who would decide what happened to me next. I was still standing by the coats when Grace burst through a door to my right. She grinned at me like she had at the station.
‘You’re ready!’ she said. ‘That’s lucky. They sent me to get you. We’re to go to the church as soon as we can. There’s going to be an announcement on the wireless. Come on.’
She took my hand and led me through a kitchen, out of a door and across a lawn to a gate in the railings, then we were in the graveyard. We wove between the headstones and jumped over graves, hurried along by the urgent ringing of the bells. Just as we got to the porch at the front of the church they stopped. Grace smiled again.
‘Just in time,’ she said.
Outside it was a sunny day, busy with the sound of the bells and the birds, but inside the church everything was silent and still. Our run from the rectory had made me hot but now I shivered in the cool air, which smelled of polish and damp. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw that this church wasn’t like the one at home. It had no figures of the saints, no golden candlesticks, no paintings. The flower arrangements on the window-ledges were dropping their petals and the carpet in the aisle was faded and frayed. But the church was full, packed with people sitting quietly, waiting. The only space was next to Mrs Rivers, who was sitting alone up near the altar, wearing a red suit and a hat with a feather in it. Grace and I walked up the aisle towards her, side by side, keeping step. Mingled with the polish and the damp was another smell, one that I recognized from the train, the smell of fear. As I took my seat next to Grace I began to be frightened too and I shivered again, wondering what would happen next.
Suddenly the congregation stood. A tall man came past us, his hands clasped in front of him, wearing a long black gown that went right to the floor. Over it he wore a white smock that, like the church, had seen better days, splashed with mud up the back and dotted with moth-holes along the hem.
‘That’s Father,’ Grace whispered.
So there he was, that strange thing, the married priest, Mrs Rivers’ husband, standing in front of us, almost close enough to touch. The back of his neck was scrubbed and red. He held his head very still as he spoke and his voice was solemn, as if he were saying something important. I wasn’t really listening to what he had to say. I was looking at a man who was bending over something on a table next to Reverend Rivers, a polished wooden box that sounded almost as if it were alive, one minute hissing and crackling, the next letting out an angry hum.
‘It’s a wireless set,’ Grace said. ‘Mr Chamberlain’s about to tell us if there’s going to be a war. Everybody’s frightened because the fathers will have to go and fight the Germans.’
I didn’t know who Mr Chamberlain was but I wanted to hear what he had to say, to know what was going to happen to me, if I was to stay in this strange place or if I would be allowed to go home to Ma. I screwed up my eyes as tight as I could and prayed for the news to be good.
The voice that came from the wireless sounded tired and sad. It was Mr Chamberlain, I supposed. I opened my eyes and leaned forward to listen.
I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at Number Ten Downing Street. This morning, the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note, stating that unless the British government heard from them by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany . . .
So there it was, the thing that Ma and I had hoped and prayed wouldn’t happen, the thing that would keep me from her.
. . . The situation in which no word given by Germany’s ruler could be trusted and no people or country could feel itself safe has become intolerable. Now we have resolved to finish it . . .
I wondered how long that would take.
. . . May God bless you all. May he defend the right, for it is evil things that we shall be fighting against - brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution; and against them I am certain that the right will prevail.
For a moment nobody said a word, then a baby started to cry and people began to turn to each other and whisper. Reverend Rivers, who had sat in the pew opposite us to listen to the broadcast, got to his feet. His expression was grave.
‘Let us pray,’ he said.
Like everyone else, I dropped to my knees. Reverend Rivers prayed for England. He prayed for the village. He prayed for the King and he prayed for the men who would fight for us. I said Amen when he had finished but I wasn’t thinking of the King and the soldiers. I could only think of Ma. I wondered if she were in church like us, but on her own, with nobody to turn to. She would be safe there, at least; not even the Germans would dare to bomb a house of God. But she wouldn’t be able to stay there forever. There would come a time when she would have to go back home. I imagined bombs falling like deadly raindrops, soaking the London streets with blood.
I wanted Ma to be with me in this church instead, holding my hand, the two of us looking after each other like we always had. Tears spilled down over my cheeks and onto my hands as I prayed. I made myself as small as I could, tucking in my elbows, keeping my head down and my hands pressed tightly together under my chin. I tried to cry quietly so that nobody would notice, but it was no good. Grace knew. I could feel her watching me. She pressed her shoulder against mine and whispered in my ear.
‘I’m sorry about the war. But I’m not sorry you’ll be staying. I’m glad.’
Reverend Rivers cut the service short after that. We sung one hymn, quietly and quickly, then he walked down the aisle and stood in the porch to say goodbye to the congregation, which followed him without speaking. By the time we got to the porch, after everyone else had gone, Reverend Rivers was already turning to come back inside, as if he wanted to get away from the sunshine and back into the gloom of the church. I could see why. It seemed too bright for a first day at war.
Mrs Rivers was the first to speak. ‘This is Nora,’ she said.
Reverend Rivers looked blank.
She sighed. ‘Our evacuee. She arrived last night while you were taking Evensong. I told you about her over supper. Don’t you remember?’
‘I chose her!’ Grace said. ‘Her birthday’s just before mine. We’re almost exactly the same age. Don’t you think we look like each other?’
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sp; An odd look passed across Reverend Rivers’ face, then he stretched out his arm and put his hand on my head. ‘Welcome, Nora. God bless you.’
His voice was like Mr Chamberlain’s, solemn and low. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I stood very still, feeling awkward, waiting for him to take his hand away.
‘I must see to lunch,’ said Mrs Rivers. ‘Come along, girls. You can help.’
Mrs Rivers sent us to a room that had tall windows looking out onto the garden and curtains that hung all the way to the floor. In the middle of it was a long table made of dark, polished wood. On the table was a bowl of flowers that looked as if they were made of the same material as the curtains, something velvet and fine. The room was filled with their scent. I stood in the doorway, puzzled at what the room was for.
‘What’s the matter?’ Grace said.
I knew somehow not to tell her that I was used to a table that we covered with sheets of newspaper because we didn’t have a cloth, and that it wobbled because the woodlice were eating their way through its legs.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Only, I’ve never seen a room like this before.’
‘What do you mean? A room like what?’
‘One that’s like a kitchen but with just a table and some chairs and nothing else in it.’
‘It’s a dining room,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a dining room?’
‘A dining room?’
‘It’s for eating in.’
I was astonished at the idea of a room that was only for eating in. It was bigger than our kitchen and front room put together. To hide my surprise, I went over to the table and bent to sniff the flowers. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, filling my nose with their smell.
‘What are you doing?’ Grace asked, putting a pile of knives and forks on the table with a clatter.
I opened my eyes quickly and stood up. ‘It’s these flowers. They’re the nicest thing I’ve ever smelled.’
She frowned. ‘Don’t you have roses in London? They’re just from the garden. Mummy picks them. She’s like you, she thinks they smell nice.’
‘Roses.’ I said the word slowly, testing it out on my lips.
‘Say it like me. Roses.’
‘Roses.’ But I couldn’t say it like she did, no matter how hard I tried. I began to stammer, ashamed that I couldn’t get my mouth around the word.
She said it again. ‘Roses.’
It was the latest thing to catch me out in this strange place, the countryside, where all the rules were different. If I couldn’t even speak like the people who lived there, I thought, I didn’t stand a chance. I bit my lip, trying to hold back tears. I didn’t want her to see me cry again. I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t like this. I never cried at home. The past two days had somehow made me different and I didn’t like it.
Grace touched my shoulder. ‘Nora? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be hurtful. I thought it was funny, that’s all.’
I sniffed. ‘Funny?’
She smiled. ‘Row-sis,’ she said, in my voice, rolling her eyes at me. ‘Row-sis.’
She did look funny as she said it and I couldn’t help but giggle. She giggled too and I felt a small spark of hope.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We’d better get on with it. We’ll be in trouble if the table isn’t laid in time.’
It took us a while to do it. Each time that I put a knife or a fork in the wrong place, Grace would say ‘Row-sis’ and it would set us off again. By the time we were finished my cheeks were sore from laughing.
I discovered other things that day. The best was roast beef. As lunchtime grew close, a thick, savoury smell drifted through the rectory, making my mouth water and my spirits lift. Ma and I ate plain food that was white or grey; bread and dripping, boiled potatoes and stew. The food that Mrs Rivers set down on the rectory table was bright like stained glass in a church window. The slices of meat that came away from Reverend Rivers’ carving knife were as pink as a blush. Mrs Rivers put two pieces on my plate, next to orange carrots, dark green spinach and roast potatoes the colour of gold, then she poured on gravy that settled in pools around it all. I shifted forward in my chair.
‘Let us give thanks,’ said Reverend Rivers. Mrs Rivers and Grace put their hands together and bowed their heads. I copied them, hoping that he would be quick.
‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’
As I mumbled Amen, I stole a glance at Reverend Rivers from behind my hands. He had taken off the smock but was still wearing the long gown. It had little buttons all the way up the front of it to his throat, small buttons like the ones on a nightdress. I had never imagined that I might sit at a table with a priest. Reverend Rivers didn’t look like any man I had ever known. He was so thin that he looked as if he would snap in two if he bent to pick something up. His face was pale and his eyes were hidden behind thick spectacles. His hands, still clasped together from saying grace, were very white against the black cuffs of his gown, not a man’s hands at all, but the soft, clean hands of a woman who didn’t go out to work.
But I was more concerned with what was on my plate than with Reverend Rivers. The smell of the food rose up to my nose, thick and strong. I picked up my knife and fork and cut through one of the pieces of meat. I stabbed at it with my fork, added a potato and dipped it into the gravy.
I wanted to keep the taste of that first mouthful forever, holding the meat and potato on my tongue as the hot gravy ran down my throat. Swallowing seemed like a shame. But the mouthfuls that followed were just as good. I put iron-tasting spinach next to buttery carrots and softened the saltiness of the potatoes with gravy. I cut a slice of beef into little pieces and piled them all onto my fork, then filled my mouth as full as I could with meat, liking the resistance that it gave as I chewed.
When I looked up from my plate, I realized that I had eaten much faster than anyone else. Half of Reverend Rivers’ food was still untouched and Grace had picked out her meat but left her vegetables to one side. Mrs Rivers had eaten hardly anything. I had soaked up the last bit of gravy with half a roast potato.
‘You have an appetite, child,’ said Reverend Rivers.
Food was just what I ate when Ma put it in front of me, nothing more than a way to fill my stomach. I had never been lost in it like this. But I knew I couldn’t explain that to Reverend Rivers, who didn’t look as if he would ever be carried away by anything. I suddenly remembered that gluttony was a sin and I stared down at my plate, concentrating on the blue and white flowers twisting around the rim.
‘I expect you were awfully hungry,’ said Mrs Rivers. ‘You didn’t have any breakfast and you missed supper last night.’
What had just happened had nothing to do with hunger. It was something else, I wasn’t sure what, a feeling of being woken up by things that were different and new. But I didn’t know how to explain any of that to Mrs Rivers and I wanted to please her, so I said ‘No, Miss.’
My voice sounded strange, like when I had talked about the roses. It seemed out of place in the rectory, with its polished furniture and curtains that went all the way down to the floor. Grace had made it better by making me laugh but now, sitting at the table with my guardian angel, Mrs Rivers, and her husband the priest, it mattered again.
Mrs Rivers gave me a look that reminded me of the way that Ma was sometimes when she kissed me goodnight. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to being here. Make yourself at home. You’re part of the family now.’
‘How long will she stay?’ said Grace. ‘Must she really go back when the war’s finished?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Mrs Rivers. ‘Nobody knows how long this terrible war is going to last. Nora will stay with us for as long as it is safer for her to be here than in London. After that she’ll go home, of course.’
‘Will she come to school with me? She could share my desk. We could be in the same dormitory.’
Mrs Rivers looked as if she were about to say something that she knew
Grace wouldn’t like. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be going back to school until the war’s over. Your father and I have decided that it wouldn’t be safe. It’s better that you stay here with us.’
Grace flushed and pushed her plate away from her. ‘But I have to go. All my friends are there.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Mrs Rivers. ‘I’m sure that most of your school friends will be staying at home like you. And anyway, you won’t be alone. Nora’s here. She’ll be your friend.’
I liked the thought of being Grace’s friend. She wasn’t like any girl I had known before. Everything about her was bright, from her tartan skirt to the sparkle in her eyes. Her skin seemed to glow, as if it were lit up like the painting in the hallway, and her hair was like the roses, velvet and fine. There was something about her that was exciting, something about the way she seemed to say what she thought as soon as it came into her head. I wanted to be her friend. I wanted her to like me.
‘Please let me go,’ said Grace, looking at Reverend Rivers, who was frowning down at his plate. ‘Father,’ she said, more loudly.
He looked up and peered at her through his spectacles. ‘What?’
‘Mummy says I’m not allowed to go back to school.’
He put down his knife and fork and clasped his hands together as if he were about to start praying again.
‘Grace,’ he said. ‘We’re at war. Your school is on the coast. That will be the first place to be invaded. We cannot let you go. You’ll stay here until the war is over.’
But she wouldn’t give in. ‘How will we ever learn anything?’ she said. ‘You’re always telling me how I don’t know enough.’
Reverend Rivers nodded. ‘I’ve thought of that. You’re too old to go to the school in the village, so I have decided to teach you myself. Every morning you and Nora will come to my study for lessons.’
Grace looked horrified but Reverend Rivers carried on speaking. ‘Nora, do you like to learn?’
Days of Grace Page 4