turn’.
Sarah breathed a sigh of relief that they hadn’t made more of her odd outburst, but then immediately broke into a fit of the giggles. Little wiggles of laughter bubbled up from her tummy, escaping in high-pitched tones, reverberating manically around Violet’s kitchen.
She felt very peculiar. There was absolutely nothing she found amusing. In fact, she felt mad panic as the giggles became sudden bursts of laughter exploding from her mouth like the ratta-tatta-tat of a machine gun.
Violet and Albert stopped and stared, frowning at her attempts to quieten her mirth. Sarah clasped first one hand, and then the other, tightly over her mouth and tried to hold her breath. Her face flushed and her eyes felt as if they’d pop out of her head under the pressure of restrained laughter. Her brain tried to process the total lack of control of her emotions.
Oh God, yes!
This must be the warning giggles at letting knowledge of the future slip!
‘I told you she wasn’t right in the ’ead, Vi. I reckon we need to send for t’ doctor. Look at ’er, she’s like a raving lunatic!’ Albert pointed at Sarah, whilst backing towards the door.
Violet ran to Sarah’s side and shook her shoulders roughly. ‘What’s a matter, Sarah, talk to me, girl!’
That did the trick and immediately Sarah felt the laughter disappear. She took her hands away from her mouth, let out a breath and inhaled another, while trying to regulate the panic coursing around her body like an electric current.
John, whistling ‘We’ll Meet Again’
,
came up from the cellar and walked in to a stunned silence. The tune died on his lips as he looked at the three of them. ‘What’s up wi’ you lot?’
Sarah shook her head and flushed crimson, Violet shrugged and sat down as if her legs had turned to string, and Albert stood by the door. ‘Come on, John,’ he said, ‘we best leave the lasses alone. Vi’s got bread to make and Sarah’s … well, I’m not sure what she’s got to do. Anyroad, we’ll be late for our Marples meetin’.’
‘We ’aven’t got to be there until half-seven, Dad, and it’s only quarter past six.’ John looked completely bemused.
They batted an argument back and forth about leaving too early, but Sarah had stopped listening at the mention of Marples.
The Marples Hotel on the 12th of December 1940 had taken a direct hit. Completely demolished, seventy people in the hotel had lost their lives; it would be the worst single tragedy of that terrible night. Crazily, it was to have been research homework for 9CM that morning.
A flash of clarity, and the first clear plan so far, did a little dance of triumph in Sarah’s battered brain. That must be it. This is what she was here for! She had to stop John. Under no circumstances must he, or Albert for that matter, go anywhere near the place. In fact, she needed to make sure everyone stayed put. They all needed to get to the shelters in time for seven o’clock when the air-raid sirens would go.
She swallowed hard and walked over to John. She guessed that Albert wouldn’t listen to anything she had to say after just witnessing her acting like a woman possessed. No, John had to be the one to convince, and she put her plan into action.
‘Why don’t we go to the pictures tonight, John?’ she said, putting her hand on John’s arm.
He took a step back and blinked at her owlishly. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
‘Eh, pictures? You pick yer times, alright,’ Albert said, shaking his head. ‘No, I told you, we’ve got a very important meeting with t’ pigeon man from RAF Lindholme.’
John found his voice. ‘Well, me and Sarah could go t’ pictures and you could go to meet t’ pigeon man, Dad.’
‘Oh, charmin’! ’ow am I supposed to struggle all the way up to Fitzalan Square with two baskets of bloody pigeons?’
John straightened his tie and coughed. ‘Well, couldn’t we meet him tomorrow, Dad?’
Albert looked ready to blow up. ‘No, we
Sarah breathed a sigh of relief that they hadn’t made more of her odd outburst, but then immediately broke into a fit of the giggles. Little wiggles of laughter bubbled up from her tummy, escaping in high-pitched tones, reverberating manically around Violet’s kitchen.
She felt very peculiar. There was absolutely nothing she found amusing. In fact, she felt mad panic as the giggles became sudden bursts of laughter exploding from her mouth like the ratta-tatta-tat of a machine gun.
Violet and Albert stopped and stared, frowning at her attempts to quieten her mirth. Sarah clasped first one hand, and then the other, tightly over her mouth and tried to hold her breath. Her face flushed and her eyes felt as if they’d pop out of her head under the pressure of restrained laughter. Her brain tried to process the total lack of control of her emotions.
Oh God, yes!
This must be the warning giggles at letting knowledge of the future slip!
‘I told you she wasn’t right in the ’ead, Vi. I reckon we need to send for t’ doctor. Look at ’er, she’s like a raving lunatic!’ Albert pointed at Sarah, whilst backing towards the door.
Violet ran to Sarah’s side and shook her shoulders roughly. ‘What’s a matter, Sarah, talk to me, girl!’
That did the trick and immediately Sarah felt the laughter disappear. She took her hands away from her mouth, let out a breath and inhaled another, while trying to regulate the panic coursing around her body like an electric current.
John, whistling ‘We’ll Meet Again’
,
came up from the cellar and walked in to a stunned silence. The tune died on his lips as he looked at the three of them. ‘What’s up wi’ you lot?’
Sarah shook her head and flushed crimson, Violet shrugged and sat down as if her legs had turned to string, and Albert stood by the door. ‘Come on, John,’ he said, ‘we best leave the lasses alone. Vi’s got bread to make and Sarah’s … well, I’m not sure what she’s got to do. Anyroad, we’ll be late for our Marples meetin’.’
‘We ’aven’t got to be there until half-seven, Dad, and it’s only quarter past six.’ John looked completely bemused.
They batted an argument back and forth about leaving too early, but Sarah had stopped listening at the mention of Marples.
The Marples Hotel on the 12th of December 1940 had taken a direct hit. Completely demolished, seventy people in the hotel had lost their lives; it would be the worst single tragedy of that terrible night. Crazily, it was to have been research homework for 9CM that morning.
A flash of clarity, and the first clear plan so far, did a little dance of triumph in Sarah’s battered brain. That must be it. This is what she was here for! She had to stop John. Under no circumstances must he, or Albert for that matter, go anywhere near the place. In fact, she needed to make sure everyone stayed put. They all needed to get to the shelters in time for seven o’clock when the air-raid sirens would go.
She swallowed hard and walked over to John. She guessed that Albert wouldn’t listen to anything she had to say after just witnessing her acting like a woman possessed. No, John had to be the one to convince, and she put her plan into action.
‘Why don’t we go to the pictures tonight, John?’ she said, putting her hand on John’s arm.
He took a step back and blinked at her owlishly. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
‘Eh, pictures? You pick yer times, alright,’ Albert said, shaking his head. ‘No, I told you, we’ve got a very important meeting with t’ pigeon man from RAF Lindholme.’
John found his voice. ‘Well, me and Sarah could go t’ pictures and you could go to meet t’ pigeon man, Dad.’
‘Oh, charmin’! ’ow am I supposed to struggle all the way up to Fitzalan Square with two baskets of bloody pigeons?’
John straightened his tie and coughed. ‘Well, couldn’t we meet him tomorrow, Dad?’
Albert looked ready to blow up. ‘No, we
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