by Daisy Wood
‘I’ll do that.’ Brenda nudged her out of the way towards the kitchen table. ‘Have a sit-down and take the weight off your poor feet for a minute.’
Nell couldn’t help smiling at the phrase and Brenda grinned back. ‘Your husband’s not Lord Haw Haw, is he?’ she asked chummily over her shoulder. ‘You know, that man on the wireless who keeps saying we’re going to lose the war? You can tell me, I won’t pass it on.’
‘I’ll tell you something for nothing,’ Nell said, as Brenda’s eyes widened in anticipation, ‘if you start spreading rumours, you and your brother and sisters will be back where you came from faster than you can spit. Is that clear?’
‘Don’t take the hump.’ Brenda turned back to the sink and began splashing about. ‘I didn’t mean anything bad.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you meant. A girl who’s grammar-school material should understand how dangerous careless talk can be.’
‘Fair enough,’ Brenda said. ‘I’ll keep my mouth shut.’
She was incorrigible, but actually, who would believe a girl like her telling a story like that? ‘Where do you come from, out of interest?’ Nell asked.
‘Coventry,’ Brenda replied.
‘Oh, dear. I’m sorry. I suppose you won’t be going back there, then.’ Poor Coventry had suffered a terrible raid the month before, with hundreds of people killed and the ancient cathedral destroyed.
Brenda emptied the water out of the washing-up bowl and seized a tea towel. ‘Not any time soon, but that’s all right. I like it here. There’s enough to eat and plenty to do.’
‘Like what?’ Nell asked, intrigued.
Brenda shrugged. ‘Help at the farm, look after the hens, do our chores and homework and stuff.’ She glanced at Nell as though wondering how much information to share. ‘And physical jerks. You know, training exercises.’
‘Training for what?’
‘For all eventualities.’ Brenda put the cups and saucers back in the dresser and hung the tea towel on its hook by the Aga. ‘I can’t say any more.’
‘All right.’ Nell yawned and stretched. ‘Well, time for Alice to have some fresh air, I suppose.’
‘Susan will take care of that,’ Brenda said. ‘She couldn’t wait to get her hands on a proper baby. She’s been making do with Malcolm but it’s not the same.’
Susan was indeed reluctant to hand Alice over. ‘Please let me push the pram,’ she said. ‘I’ll be careful, honest.’ She ran a hand over the Ambassador as though it were Cinderella’s enchanted carriage.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ Nell promised. She had to reclaim her daughter before she became an honorary member of the Potts clan. Alice was hers, after all, and she had little else.
It didn’t take long for Nell to fall into a routine at Orchard House. Each morning she’d wait until her parents had finished in the bathroom, then she would slip in there with Alice before the evacuees came clattering down from the loft room for a quick wash. They would eat breakfast in the kitchen under Nell’s supervision while Rose and Frank had theirs in the dining room, Frank being unable to tolerate the slightest noise so early in the day. He would then retreat to the downstairs cloakroom with his pipe and newspaper while Rose pottered about the house and the evacuees set off for school. Nell would clear the breakfast things, feed the chickens and make the beds, before loading Alice into the pram and setting off for the shops. There were two pubs in Millbury now, and a draper’s shop alongside the baker, butcher, greengrocer and chemist in the high street.
She would usually have to wait in a long line of other women for whatever supplies were available. Bread and vegetables weren’t rationed, but there was often little or none left by the time she reached the head of the queue. Outside the shop, there might be friendly gossip and clucking over Alice in her magnificent carriage; inside, the atmosphere changed. Everyone watched each other, on the alert for special treatment: maybe a slice extra for a favourite, or half an ounce under for an enemy. Nell had a generous number of coupons to hand over, now that her rations were added to her parents’ and the evacuees’ allowance, and had to put up with dirty looks and muttered remarks about shopping for an army. She was back among people who’d known her since she was a baby. They would soon knock her down to size if she put on any airs; she couldn’t waltz into their shops as if she had a God-given right to be there.
She’d walk out with a laden basket and her head held high but it was a relief to come home again, back to the quiet house and her father closeted away in his study. She’d put Alice down for a nap and read or write to Arthur, take up her knitting or sewing (she was attempting to make a new wardrobe from the odds and ends of fabric her mother had produced), or knuckle down to some half-hearted cleaning to the sound of ‘Music While You Work’ on the wireless. Rooting through her wardrobe, she found her old sketchpad, pen and inks, and set about drawing Alice while she slept. She used to draw all the time, and had even wondered about going to art college and making a career out of painting or design. She knew Frank wouldn’t support her, though; in his world, men worked and women stayed at home, looking after them. It was Rose who’d used her savings to pay for Nell’s course at teacher training college.
Sometimes Nell would find herself simply sitting and staring out of the window, becalmed. She was lonely. Her parents were absorbed in their own little world and the few friends she still had in the village were mostly away on military service. She felt guilty, too, because she was doing nothing for the war effort except making do and mending, and trying not to give way to melancholy. She had volunteered with the Red Cross after she’d given up teaching on her marriage, and learned how to drive ambulances. Arthur had not been at all keen on her doing anything so dangerous, and of course once she had become pregnant, she’d had to abandon the idea. She supposed he was right. She longed for Arthur so deeply that it left a physical ache in her chest; especially at night, when the outside world used to fade away to leave just the two of them, so happy in each other’s company and very much in love. He wrote to say he was getting along well, although missing her and Alice terribly, of course. There had been a couple of hairy raids recently but he felt safe in the crypt, and he’d discovered a mobile washing van that would take care of his laundry for free! The other good news was that Bill Talbot seemed to have turned over a new leaf. Maybe the Keeper of the Clock had had a word with him, because he certainly seemed to be taking more of an interest in his work. Arthur felt Talbot might be up to something, but he couldn’t work out what.
Nell wished the laundry van would call at Orchard House, she wrote in reply, because Malcolm Parsons was still having ‘accidents’ two or three nights a week. Rather than lugging his sheets to the outside wash house and lighting the copper to boil them, she had taken to washing the damp patches in the bath under a trickle of hot water from the geyser, and sponging off the mattress as best she could. The loft room had its own fetid atmosphere and required daily airing, although the evacuees kept it neat and tidy. They slept on a row of lumpy mattresses along the floor, and hung what few clothes they had on an ingenious indoor washing line they’d rigged up, stretching from one end of the room to the other.
It was extraordinary how clearly the children’s personalities emerged in each of their sleeping spaces. Susan had tacked a display of torn-out magazine photographs of the princesses, Elizabeth and Margaret Rose, on the wall behind her mattress, and a doll with a vacant china face lay waiting on the pillow for her return each night. Brenda had pinned up a dog-eared copy of that ridiculous leaflet they’d all been sent in the summer, detailing what to do in case of invasion. Various sentences had been underlined: ‘Keep watch. If you see anything suspicious, note it carefully and go at once to the nearest police officer … Do not give any German anything’ – this was underlined three times, with a star in the margin – ‘do not tell him anything. Hide your food and your bicycles … Think before you act. But think always of your country before you think of yourself.’ She kept a catapult beside the mattre
ss and Nell had found an exercise book entitled ‘Observations’ tucked underneath it, which she was resisting the temptation to read.
Timothy’s section of the wall was decorated with meticulous drawings of German and Allied aircraft, labelled in minute writing, and a model aeroplane made of balsa wood hung from the washing line above his mattress. Janet had laid out a gallery of horse pictures and a homegrown nature table in the lid of a cardboard box: a bird’s nest containing half a robin’s egg shell, a horseshoe, a rabbit’s ear, and a brown lump of something dried that Nell didn’t like to examine too closely. She slept with a stuffed grey animal of indeterminate species. Lastly, Malcolm’s quarters by the eaves window were bare except for a photograph of his mother, a toothy woman with an eager smile and the same milk-bottle bottom glasses, which brought tears to Nell’s eyes. She could forgive him the accidents.
Strangely, her father seemed invigorated. He’d never had many friends but the Home Guard gave him a circle of acquaintances whose company he seemed to tolerate, and maybe even grudgingly enjoyed. They’d recently been issued with caps and uniforms which made them look like a proper fighting force, he told Nell proudly, and he’d resurrected his army service boots from the last war. Nell wondered what memories had come back when he’d first cleaned them, chipping away dried mud from the banks of the Somme. Surely he couldn’t have borne to wear khaki again, yet there he was, whistling as he adjusted his cap in front of the hall mirror. He left the house with his shoulders back and a spring in his step; if she’d seen his figure in the distance, she wouldn’t have known who it was.
Lord Winthrop was often away in London so her father was left in charge. He went out on patrol three evenings a week, and there was a parade every Saturday afternoon around the recreation ground. People had made fun of them at first, he told her, marching with golf clubs and broom handles instead of guns, but they weren’t laughing now, oh no. And if the Germans landed – Nell had the impression he was rather hoping they would – then the Home Guard would come into its own. Preparations were being made. There was an Invasion Committee – of which he was a member, naturally – primed to set a chain of events in motion from the second the church bells rang out in warning. He couldn’t go into detail but she should be aware that Millbury had its own food reserves, held in three separate locations around the village, one of which— But no, that was classified information.
Goodness, it was probably the longest conversation they’d ever had. ‘Pa, could I borrow the air rifle tomorrow?’ she asked, when he drew breath. ‘The forecast is good and I’d like to try bagging a rabbit.’
‘At this time of year? You’ll be lucky.’ Yet he unlocked the cupboard and let her take the gun – a little shamefaced, as though she were trying to catch him out. He would have been mortified if he ever found out that Harry had given the Beretta to her.
She got up early the next morning, a Saturday, and having left Alice in her mother’s care, took the oilcloth mackintosh from its hook and headed for the field of winter wheat where she’d seen rabbits sunning themselves in the distance a few days before. It had rained for much of the previous night so they wouldn’t have come out to feed and would be hungry now. She climbed over the gate and walked along the edge of the field, keeping close to the hedge, then dropped to her knees and edged forward on her elbows and stomach. Small black droppings were sprinkled over the grass like raisins. When she was in pole position, downwind of the warren but close enough to get a good view, she primed and loaded the rifle, adjusted the sights and settled down on the damp ground to wait.
There was something to be said for being out in the fresh air, caught between the brown earth and the iron-grey sky, with only the sound of the wind itself blowing towards her across the open field. She concentrated on keeping so still that she merged into the landscape, occasionally relieving the crick in her neck by laying her cheek flat against the turf. One solitary aeroplane flew overhead, heading for the nearby aerodrome perhaps. She closed her eyes and listened to the thud of her heart, exulting in the joy of independence.
A faint warmth on the back of her neck told her the sun had broken through. Shortly afterwards, the first rabbits emerged from the warren: young ones, a little timid at first, then gaining in confidence as they advanced towards the tender green shoots. Nell ignored them. She was interested in animals with more flesh on their bones. Eventually, three plumper specimens appeared, twitching their noses. She raised the gun slowly to her cheek, holding out for a clearer view. The leader of the trio hopped forward, the skin of its ears shining a translucent pink against the light. Nell thought of the rabbit’s ear on Janet Potts’ nature table. Janet wouldn’t approve of what she was doing now, but the creatures were pests who could decimate a growing crop. The second rabbit came lolloping to join the first and the pair sat obligingly still. With a bit of luck, she might be able to get them both. She steadied the gun and gently, smoothly squeezed the trigger. One rabbit flipped over immediately, its paws beating a frantic tattoo of death, while the other bolted for the shelter of a nearby tree trunk, as Nell had predicted. She was already aiming ahead and shot it cleanly through the neck.
The rest of the colony had scattered so no chance of another kill but she was pleased with her haul. She broke the rifle open, hooked it over her shoulder and went to retrieve the rabbits, tying them together by their hind paws with twine and hanging them inside her coat in true poacher fashion. Only then did she realise that she was being watched. Someone was staring at her from the other side of the gate. She felt guilty for a moment, although she’d committed no crime; she’d kept to the edge of the field and done the farmer a favour. As she grew nearer, she saw that it was Lord Winthrop – which was odd, because he usually avoided social contact, and she was surely the last person he’d want to encounter. He was wearing a baggy tweed jacket and cavalry twill trousers, with a cap pulled low over his forehead. He didn’t move as she approached, just stood there, staring at her. Well, she had to meet him some time.
‘Good morning, Lord Winthrop,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
He nodded at her. ‘Miss Roberts.’
‘Actually, it’s Mrs Spelman now.’ She nerved herself to carry on. ‘I was very sorry to learn about … your son.’
He nodded again. ‘Thank you. A great loss. To his country, as well as his family.’
Hugo Winthrop’s plane had been shot down over the English Channel shortly after the start of the war. At first, little was known about the precise circumstances of his death, but the Winthrops’ housekeeper happened to overhear telephone conversations and soon rumours were circulating around the village. It seemed that faulty radar had led to a false report of enemy aircraft in the area, resulting in a unit of Hawker Hurricanes from a nearby RAF base being scrambled to hunt Hugo down. The episode had been a tragic fiasco. There’d been a failure of communication between ground control and the pilots, apparently, and procedures for distinguishing between German and British aircraft had been rudimentary back then. This version of events had never been officially confirmed, but that was only to be expected, and no alternative account had been offered.
Nell could still see Hugo’s cold, angry eyes, feel the prickles of his nasty little moustache against her lips. ‘He was …’ What could she say? ‘… Very brave.’
‘He was indeed.’ Lord Winthrop fixed his eyes on the horizon. ‘A brilliant young man, of whom I was extremely proud.’
Nell nodded, shifting the gun on her shoulder.
‘I heard from your father that you were back in the neighbourhood,’ His Lordship went on. ‘Bombed out, I gather?’ He shook his head. ‘The waste of it. All this could have been avoided, you know.’
Nell wasn’t sure what he meant, so she merely replied uncertainly they were lucky to be alive.
‘Quite so.’ He gave her a long, hard look. ‘And what about this husband of yours? Your father mentioned that he worked in the Palace of Westminster, my neck of the woods. Is that right?’
Lord Winthrop frowned. ‘I thought a chap called Talbot was responsible? Know a bit about horology, you see. Had a long chat with him the other day.’
‘Well, in fact there’s a team of three,’ Nell clarified. ‘Arthur, Bill Talbot and Ralph Watkinson, plus an apprentice, although Mr Watkinson’s ill at the moment so they’re down to two.’ She was gabbling, she realised, and made an effort to stop talking.
‘Well, well, well.’ Lord Winthrop inspected Nell with his head on one side, as though he were going to bid for her at auction. ‘Arthur Spelman, that’s your husband’s name? I shall have to look out for him on my next visit to the Lords. Important to know how the place runs, who keeps it ticking over, and so on. If you’ll pardon the pun.’ He smoothed his yellowing walrus moustache. ‘Had a mechanic once called Spielmann. Does he have German blood, by any chance?’
Nell braced herself. ‘Arthur’s parents are German but he was born in London. He’s lived in this country all his life.’
‘It’s all right, I’m not questioning his loyalty.’
Nell became aware the rabbits were dripping blood onto her boot. ‘I’m awfully sorry, Lord Winthrop, but I have to be getting home.’ She put her foot on the bottom rung of the gate. ‘My mother’s looking after the baby and I’d better not test her patience. So nice to talk to you, though.’
He stepped back to let her pass. ‘Goodbye, then, Mrs Spelman. Give my regards to your father.’
It had been an odd, unsatisfactory conversation, but Nell had recovered her spirits by the time she’d walked home. She entered the house through the back door to find her father in the scullery, polishing the buttons on his tunic and muttering to himself in what sounded like German.
He broke off when he saw her, embarrassed. ‘There you are. Goodness, a brace of rabbits? Well done.’ She welcomed the praise, although she knew he’d been hoping she would have come back empty-handed.