duck, you’ll get your noddle sorted soon. I’m on nights tomorrow, but on Saturday, we can perhaps go to t’ pictures. That might cheer you up a bit.’
‘You’ll be lucky, son; she’s never bothered with you before, why should now be different?’ Albert said, sitting down heavily in the chair that Violet had vacated.
‘Oh, shurrup, Dad. She seemed ’appy enough to see me just now,’ John said, sitting at the kitchen table.
Sarah smiled inanely. Both men looked at her as if she were an exhibit in the curious creatures section of the museum. Violet pottered about mixing flour, yeast and water in a brown earthenware bowl. ‘Stop gawpin’ at her, you two. She’ll not feel right till she’s been through t’ sheets if you ask me,’ she said, adding water from a jug.
‘Through t’ sheets! It’s a bit early for bed in’t it?’ John asked.
‘Not now yer daft ha’porth, tonight. Look, make yersen busy and bring some more coal up from t’ cellar,’ Violet said, glancing at Sarah who had now taken off her shoes and was rubbing the underside of her feet vigorously.
‘You alright, love?’ Violet asked.
‘Yes, it’s just me feet; they’re really itchy all of a su—’ Sarah stopped, as a line from John’s letter smacked her between the eyes.
When you have found the person you are supposed to save, you may get a sign. It could be itchy feet
…
It had to be John then! Her feet hadn’t itched when she’d met Albert and Violet.
John clattered down the cellar steps with the coal scuttle and Sarah wondered what she would have to do to save him. Should she follow him down the cellar? This whole thing could be nothing to do with the Blitz; it could just be that he slips on a bit of coal and breaks his neck. If she went down with him, she could make sure he didn’t.
Sarah half-rose from her chair and then sank back down again. That would be really unlikely. The 12th of December, hundreds die all around from bombs and fire, while John slips on a bit of coal.
Get real, Sarah.
She had a sneaking suspicion that she would be pants at this time-travelling rescue malarkey. She sighed, listening to the coal being shovelled below, and then her ears tuned in to the conversation in the room.
‘So do they pay you for these birds, then?’ Violet was asking Albert.
‘Nay, lass. It’s an ’onour to let me pigeons do vital war work. God knows I’d be fighting if I were allowed. Instead I ’ave to make do with t’ ’ome Guard. It’s not the same as being a soldier, Vi.’
Violet stopped kneading the bread and gave Albert a hard stare. ‘Well, I wish my Billy were alive and in t’ ’ome Guard. He were a soldier and a fat lot of good that did him!’
Albert shuffled in his seat and mumbled something unintelligible. Then his sharp eyes alighted back on Sarah’s. ‘You like me pigeons don’t you, love?’ he asked, returning to the subject at hand.
Sarah nodded; it seemed safest.
‘Just think if one of ’em wins a medal for going behind enemy lines, getting vital information and saving folk.’ He beamed at them both. ‘That would be a grand day alright.’
Sarah realised he must be one of the many pigeon fanciers who had given their birds to the armed forces to carry messages during the war. She remembered that many pigeons did in fact carry vital information, and if they survived enemy fire, managed to save lives, or bring crucial information about the positioning of the enemy. They were dropped in containers by parachute and hopefully fell into the hands of the allies and the resistance. A message was attached and then the pigeon would be released back to Britain, or sometimes to mobile lofts on ships.
Sarah suddenly blurted without thinking, ‘Oh yes, I think there were about 250,000 used in total. And they did get medals, but not until about 1943 …’
Violet and Albert just gave her withering looks and carried on chatting. They obviously thought she was still suffering from her ‘funny
‘You’ll be lucky, son; she’s never bothered with you before, why should now be different?’ Albert said, sitting down heavily in the chair that Violet had vacated.
‘Oh, shurrup, Dad. She seemed ’appy enough to see me just now,’ John said, sitting at the kitchen table.
Sarah smiled inanely. Both men looked at her as if she were an exhibit in the curious creatures section of the museum. Violet pottered about mixing flour, yeast and water in a brown earthenware bowl. ‘Stop gawpin’ at her, you two. She’ll not feel right till she’s been through t’ sheets if you ask me,’ she said, adding water from a jug.
‘Through t’ sheets! It’s a bit early for bed in’t it?’ John asked.
‘Not now yer daft ha’porth, tonight. Look, make yersen busy and bring some more coal up from t’ cellar,’ Violet said, glancing at Sarah who had now taken off her shoes and was rubbing the underside of her feet vigorously.
‘You alright, love?’ Violet asked.
‘Yes, it’s just me feet; they’re really itchy all of a su—’ Sarah stopped, as a line from John’s letter smacked her between the eyes.
When you have found the person you are supposed to save, you may get a sign. It could be itchy feet
…
It had to be John then! Her feet hadn’t itched when she’d met Albert and Violet.
John clattered down the cellar steps with the coal scuttle and Sarah wondered what she would have to do to save him. Should she follow him down the cellar? This whole thing could be nothing to do with the Blitz; it could just be that he slips on a bit of coal and breaks his neck. If she went down with him, she could make sure he didn’t.
Sarah half-rose from her chair and then sank back down again. That would be really unlikely. The 12th of December, hundreds die all around from bombs and fire, while John slips on a bit of coal.
Get real, Sarah.
She had a sneaking suspicion that she would be pants at this time-travelling rescue malarkey. She sighed, listening to the coal being shovelled below, and then her ears tuned in to the conversation in the room.
‘So do they pay you for these birds, then?’ Violet was asking Albert.
‘Nay, lass. It’s an ’onour to let me pigeons do vital war work. God knows I’d be fighting if I were allowed. Instead I ’ave to make do with t’ ’ome Guard. It’s not the same as being a soldier, Vi.’
Violet stopped kneading the bread and gave Albert a hard stare. ‘Well, I wish my Billy were alive and in t’ ’ome Guard. He were a soldier and a fat lot of good that did him!’
Albert shuffled in his seat and mumbled something unintelligible. Then his sharp eyes alighted back on Sarah’s. ‘You like me pigeons don’t you, love?’ he asked, returning to the subject at hand.
Sarah nodded; it seemed safest.
‘Just think if one of ’em wins a medal for going behind enemy lines, getting vital information and saving folk.’ He beamed at them both. ‘That would be a grand day alright.’
Sarah realised he must be one of the many pigeon fanciers who had given their birds to the armed forces to carry messages during the war. She remembered that many pigeons did in fact carry vital information, and if they survived enemy fire, managed to save lives, or bring crucial information about the positioning of the enemy. They were dropped in containers by parachute and hopefully fell into the hands of the allies and the resistance. A message was attached and then the pigeon would be released back to Britain, or sometimes to mobile lofts on ships.
Sarah suddenly blurted without thinking, ‘Oh yes, I think there were about 250,000 used in total. And they did get medals, but not until about 1943 …’
Violet and Albert just gave her withering looks and carried on chatting. They obviously thought she was still suffering from her ‘funny
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