Don't Know Where, Don't Know When (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 1)

by Annette Laing

  “But he’ll send us away,” Hannah yelled, leaping to her feet.

  “I said, calm down,” barked Mrs. Devenish. “I will speak with this Mr. Smedley, if and when he contacts me. Now, either stop this silly panicking this minute, Hannah Day, or you can go and sit upstairs. It does you no good at all, and it gives me a headache.”

  As it turned out, they did not have long to wait. Eric and Alex were playing chess, while Verity read a book, and Hannah helped Mrs. Devenish polish the silverware. There was a knock at the door. Mrs. Devenish was in the dining room, replacing the forks in their drawer in the buffet, when she saw a taxi pull up in front of the house. Immediately, she returned to the kitchen.

  “Children, go to your rooms,” she ordered, pointing to the stairs. “And I’m warning you: If I see so much as a toenail peeping over the landing, there will be sore bottoms.”

  Once the kids were safely upstairs, she opened the door to Mr. Smedley and invited him in. Hannah and Verity, who were by now leaning as far over the landing rail as they could, were dismayed to hear Mrs. Devenish close the door to the drawing room behind her.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” said Verity in a disappointed whisper.

  “Verity!” exclaimed Hannah in delight. “You swore!”

  “So? I’m not an absolute goody-goody, you know…Just don’t tell Granny.”

  Soon, they heard the sound of the front door closing. Verity and Hannah glanced at each other nervously, and tiptoed into Verity’s room. From there, with the door open, they could hear Mrs. Devenish speaking to someone on the telephone, but they couldn’t make out what she was saying. Shortly afterward, she hung and came up to Verity’s room. “It’s alright, girls, you can come downstairs,” she said. “He’s gone, and I daresay he won’t be back.”

  “How…?” said Hannah delightedly.

  “Did you give him a fright, Granny?” asked Verity with a cheeky grin.

  “I don’t know what you mean by that, Verity,” she said severely, as Alex and Eric joined her at the door. “I simply pointed out to Mr. Smedley that I am a magistrate, and that I have decided that the best course of action is for Alex and Hannah to be billeted with me.”

  Alex and Hannah beamed at each other, and both of them felt an enormous wave of relief. Eric and Verity cheered excitedly. Mrs. Devenish continued, “I also told him that if he had objections, he would need to take them up with the proper authorities, but he assured me that there would be no need for the matter to go further. I have rung the billeting officer, Mr. Simmons, to inform him of your removal. So that’s that.”

  She looked at the four happy faces around her, and rolled her eyes. “I must have taken leave of my senses,” she said. “Now, let me be quite clear about this. I want all of you on your best behavior. I’m not having any nonsense. Do you hear me, Hannah?”

  “Me?” exclaimed Hannah with a tone of injured innocence. “Why pick on me?”

  “Quite,” said Mrs. Devenish. “Oh, and before I forget, I took the opportunity to ask Mr. Simmons about Mrs. Smith. It seems that no evacuee has been billeted to her, to his knowledge. However, he says he doesn’t know her at all, so it’s possible she has a child of her own. This assumes, of course, that you saw anything at all to begin with, Eric.” She looked piercingly at him, and he quailed under the onslaught.

  Chapter 11

  Messages and Mysteries

  It was Sunday afternoon at the Gordons’ house, and a week since the news of James’ death on the battlefield in France. Black crepe hung in the windows, and the whole family dressed in black every day, except for Brandon, who had almost no black clothes. Mr. Gordon had solemnly presented him with an armband to wear.

  “What’s all this for?” he quietly asked Oliver, gesturing to the crepe in the front hall. Oliver was confused by the question. “Well, because James died, of course.”

  “Well, yeah, but…Why?”

  Oliver looked lost. “I suppose…” and then he remembered what his cousin Peggy had told him when he had asked her the same question about a house on the next street. “I suppose because then everyone will know we’re in mourning, and not say anything to upset us.”

  “Oh, I get it,” said Brandon. “I’ll have to pass that idea along to my Aunt Morticia…I mean, Marcia. She runs a funeral home… You know what?” he suddenly asked, “Shall we go check out the park?”

  “Oh, we can’t do that,” Oliver said. “We’re in mourning, and it’s Sunday.”

  “Okay, okay, but let’s find something to do outside. I’m going totally stir crazy in here. We could go for a walk. Where’s your cousin?”

  “I think she’s out.”

  “Right. Well, hey, two guys together…How about we go look at the trains. They run on Sundays, yeah?”

  “Only a Sunday service,” said Oliver. “Do you really think there will be many trains, George?”

  “Sure,” Brandon said. “Balesworth’s on the main line to the north, there’s always plenty of trains, even on Sundays.”

  “We could collect engine numbers…” said Oliver, thoughtfully.

  Brandon couldn’t think of a better idea. “Sure.”

  “…but not on a Sunday,” Oliver added. “Uncle Bob wouldn’t approve.”

  “Oliver, would you please live a little? I mean, come on, what Mr. Gordon doesn’t know won’t hurt him. It’s not like we’re out smashing windows.”

  At Balesworth Station, blazing fires were lit in the waiting rooms, and the station café was doing a brisk trade in pots of tea and buttered toast. A few people waited on the platform, among them a young woman in an enormous hat and elegant laced boots, carrying an umbrella, who soon boarded the next train, entering a ladies-only carriage, along with two small boys in sailor suits. A young man with an empty sleeve pinned to his jacket stood with a friend on crutches, who was missing his right leg below the knee.

  A group of soldiers in battle uniform were moping around, their kit lying on the platform. Most of the men were smoking cigarettes. A passing civilianstopped and said, “Back to France, eh, lads? Doing your King and Country proud, you are.” But the men stared at him, and he quickly walked away, embarrassed, his head down. One of the soldiers began to sing, and the rest slowly joined in:

  “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, smile, smile…

  While there’s a Lucifer to light your fag, smile, boys, that’s the style…

  What’s the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile, so…

  Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, smile, smile.”

  Brandon had heard the song before, in the air raid shelter in 1940. None of the singers had smiled then, either.

  Brandon and Oliver took up a position on the covered bridge between the platforms, and Oliver retrieved his notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket. Brandon scanned the platforms, and almost immediately spotted a familiar face.

  “Hey, Oliver?”

  “Yes, George?” Oliver was opening his notebook.

  “Is that your cousin down there?” He nodded toward a young woman in a black dress and hat.

  “Might be…Yes, actually, I think it is. I wonder where she’s going?”

  “Should we go say ‘hi’?” asked Brandon.

  “If you care to,” said Oliver politely. He was about to redeposit his notebook in his pocket, when suddenly he said “Look!” and pointed down the line toward London. A plume of white smoke announced the imminent arrival of a train.

  As the engine pulled in, it hid the platform from sight. Brandon supposed that Peggy must have boarded the train. Meanwhile, Oliver was fussing beside him, because he couldn’t read the engine name and number, since the train had pulled too far up the platform.

  “Come on, George. Let’s go and look before the train departs.”

  He dashed down the iron staircase, and Brandon followed at his leisure. Reaching the base of the steps, he gazed along the length of the platform ahead of him. At the far end, Peggy stood talking with a soldier
. As Brandon came closer, he was astonished to realize that the soldier was black.

  Oliver had already rushed up to his cousin. “Peggy! It’s him, isn’t it? It’s your friend, isn’t it?”

  Peggy Gordon looked horrified, and she tried to shush Oliver as Brandon joined them.

  “Er, is this, like, a bad time?” he asked, standing next to Oliver.

  The shy-looking soldier with a trim moustache smiled kindly at the boys.

  “You must be Oliver,” he said, in an accent that Brandon couldn’t quite place. “And this must be George,” he said, shaking Brandon’s hand.

  Peggy covered her eyes briefly, then looked resigned. “Well, I suppose now is as good a time as any. I say, could we go into a waiting room? That one looks empty.”

  They entered the waiting room. Peggy hesitated until the door had closed, looked about, and then took the soldier’s arm in hers.

  “This,” she announced, “is Captain Edward Braithwaite. He has asked me to marry him, and I have accepted.” She gave a great smile.

  Brandon was stunned by the name he had just heard.

  “Is there anyone in your family called George?” he abruptly asked Captain Braithwaite.

  The Captain was baffled. “No, not that I know of. Why?”

  “No matter,” said Brandon. “Just wondered.”

  On the journey back to the house, Brandon walked with Captain Braithwaite, eager to learn more about him.

  He told Brandon that he was born and raised in Kingston, on the island of Jamaica. Although Jamaica was thousands of miles from England and, indeed, was close to the United States, it was part of the British Empire. When war broke out in August, 1914, Captain Braithwaite had volunteered to fight. But the War Office in London had refused, at first, to allow black people into the British army.

  “But why?” asked Brandon.

  “They’re concerned that the Germans will think us weak for relying on so-called ‘inferior’ races to fight,” Captain Braithwaite said sadly. “This is the sort of nonsense we’re all up against, George. Have you heard of the NAACP?”

  “Sure I have,” Brandon said without thinking. “My dad is former branch president.”

  “I would like to believe that,” said Braithwaite, “but you must be mistaken. The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People? In America?”

  “Oh, um, that NAACP,” said Brandon. “No, you’re right, he’s in the other one, you know, the National Association for…um…Art, Crafts and Painting.”

  “Don’t think I’ve heard of that one, George,” said Captain Braithwaite, suppressing a smile. “The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, was founded just three years ago in America. But we need a British Empire NAACP. At least I’ve been allowed into the Army, although they won’t send me to France. Still, it’s a start.”

  “You want to be in the war?” said Brandon, wide-eyed. There was a long pause.

  “I thought I did,” said Captain Braithwaite carefully. “But I don’t anymore. George, I shouldn’t say this, and I won’t tell Miss Gordon, of course, but…” He looked about him to be sure nobody was listening. “It’s a disaster.”

  “Are you… Are we losing?” Brandon asked.

  Captain Braithwaite gave a short, mirthless laugh. “It’s probably more accurate to say that nobody is winning. Listen, I’ve been talking to some of the officers, back from France. The damn generals are sending infantry, even cavalry—horses, George!—against machine guns and barbed wire. We can’t move, and we’re dug down in deep trenches of mud. Once in a while, the orders come from behind the lines, and we send another group of brave young men to die. Men lose their faces, George. A shell hits a man, and the next thing, he’s vanished, blown to bits. And we don’t even know why we’re there. All those stories we heard at the start of the war, about German soldiers bayoneting babies? The officers told me it’s rubbish. The government and newspapers made it up.”

  “But suppose…” said Brandon. “I mean, suppose the Germans really did something awful. Like, like try to kill all the Jewish people? Just as an example.”

  “That’s a little far-fetched, George. But, since you ask, I wouldn’t believe anything the government or the papers told me about Germany. Not now.”

  Brandon had a horrible cold chill running down his back. He seemed to remember seeing something on TV about how British and American people heard that Hitler was murdering millions of Jews during World War Two, but they refused to believe it…

  Oliver was now skipping ahead with Captain Braithwaite, and Brandon was walking with Peggy.

  “We met in the park,” said Peggy happily. “But I have waited to tell Mother and Father about him until we’re sure we will be married.”

  “You think they’re gonna be happy about this?” asked Brandon, nervously.

  “Mother won’t,” she said. “There will be the most terrible row. Perhaps my father will be more understanding. It wasn’t easy for them when they got married. My mother’s family didn’t want her marrying a Scotsman, you see. I suppose we hope they will both come around. Anyway, there won’t be much they can do. We plan to run away to Gretna Green on Edward’s next leave.”

  “What’s that?” asked Brandon.

  “Oh, it’s the first village over the Scottish border. We can get married in Scotland without my parents’ consent. Otherwise, of course, we would have to wait until I’m twenty-one.”

  “You have this all figured out, huh?” said Brandon.

  “I hope so,” she said uncertainly.

  “But what about the war?” asked Brandon. He thought of all the returned soldiers he had seen at the hospital, with their missing limbs, and bandaged eyes, not to mention the soldiers who had never returned at all, like James.

  Peggy thought for a moment and then said, with certainty, “I can’t think about that, George.”

  Their reception at the house was worse than Brandon had feared. He heard Mrs. Gordon and her daughter arguing, with ever-rising voices, and Mr. Gordon trying, without success, to intervene. Finally, he heard Mrs. Gordon clearly announce that she would throw her daughter out of the house if she had anything to do with a colored man. Mr. Gordon again tried to add a reasonable voice, but the women ignored him. He had not been the same since James’ death. He rarely said more than he had to, and spent many hours alone in his study. At meals, he barely spoke. Now, the will to argue with his wife seemed to have left him.

  Brandon heard the commotion as Captain Braithwaite left the house, and Peggy Gordon ran upstairs, bursting into noisy tears. “We must get married,” she was crying hysterically. “We have to.”

  Her mother followed her.

  Brandon didn’t plan to eavesdrop, but he had work to do in the anteroom next to the surgery, checking inventories and filling out orders for supplies. Peggy’s room was next door, and he could hear most of the discussion, not least because, neither woman having realized he was there, they had not lowered their voices.

  “You always were childish and irresponsible,” shouted Mrs. Gordon. “Always thinking of yourself first, and never considering your father or me. Your brother was always dutiful, and he was a good son to us. But you…You disgust me. I wish you had never been born.”

  Peggy had been weeping loudly, but now she suddenly turned on her mother. “I hate you. And you can’t stop me, you know. We’re going to Gretna Green.”

  There was a pause, and Brandon imagined that Peggy already regretted what she had said. Mrs. Gordon shrieked at her, “You will do no such thing, you stupid girl…Do you really think you will be here when and if that creature returns for you? You have only one choice to make. I will find you somewhere to stay where nobody will know you, or…”

  “Or what?” said Peggy.

  Mrs. Gordon’s voice now grew chillingly quiet. “Or I shall regard your behavior as a sign of mental deficiency and instability. I will speak to your father about having you committed to an asylum where you can be cared for properly.
”

  Peggy gasped so loudly that Brandon could hear her. “You wouldn’t…Father would never allow it.”

  Her mother paused, and said quietly in a voice filled with foreboding, “I could persuade him. It would be for your own good…and for ours.”

  The next day, Peggy was sitting in the front parlor, dressed to go out, and with an enormous traveling trunk at her side.

  Brandon knocked on the door, and entered. “You alright?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  Brandon sat down across from her. “I heard what your mom said yesterday. I’m sorry, I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I was working, and I couldn’t help overhearing y’all. Was she seriously threatening to send you to a mental hospital?”

  “Yes,” said Peggy, not looking at him.

  “Wow,” said Brandon, shaking his head. “That’s not where you’re going, is it?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s not. I just hope that where I am going is not just as bad.”

  “I’m really sorry,” said Brandon, “I don’t understand any of this. It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen in…Yorkshire. I hope it all works out in the end.”

  Peggy gave him a grateful half-smile. “George, I may be gone for a few months. If I write to you, will you write back?”